common love

by huhwaku

Summary:

“Who are you?”

Loid met her gaze. Yor wondered what her face was doing, that he was taking so long to answer. “To you, I am Loid Forger.” Why did that hurt more than if he’d struck her? “And to Anya,” he said, some gentleness finally coming into his voice, “I am Loid Forger. Her father. And you are her mother.” Yor stared at him, now certain her devastation was plain on her face.

 

When Yor learns of a plot to kidnap Anya, she returns home to find Loid handling a gun with expert skill, and Anya already taken. After that earth shattering day, in rallying around Anya, Yor and Twilight face a time of uncertainty where choices are made, long-kept secrets are shared, and precarious trust becomes unassailable intimacy.
[Title change: previously 'it's only me, what have you got to lose?']

Chapter 1

Notes:

✌️!

 

Update as of 12 July 2025: I've overhauled chapter one: none of the important things change, just the way in which everything starts! I may post the original version to tumblr for posterity, and I'll link that here if I do. ♥

Trees and lamp posts blinked past her window. The driver taking Yor away from the Shopkeeper, towards home where she could act on what he'd told her. She tried to sit still, to tamp down on the urgency, to stop her hand from crushing the handles of her bag again —

We're not going fast enough —!

Yor's hand was already on the door handle as the car drew to stop at another red light —

Stop, Yor!

Running home wouldn't be faster! It would only feel faster, which wasn't the same thing! Traffic was probably moving steadily. It was probably faster than she could run. Probably. Probably?

Shaking her head vigorously, Stop, Yor! She needed to keep her head!

The car pulled forward again.

Bouncing her legs, trying to dispel the energy, Use this time to plan, she urged herself. How can I protect Anya?

Going directly to Eden would have been best, but there was no way she could shadow Anya dressed in her city hall work clothes. She needed something she could better move in — and something that would help her blend in. She also only had her stilettos with her — and three small daggers, four throwing knives and a blade in each boot; it would probably be good to have a few weapons that were more defensive. And subtle. Neurotoxins were far from her preferred method but the ones she had would incapacitate rather than kill, and since she didn’t have a defined list of clients and was going to a school…

They wouldn't try to kidnap her from school, would they?

She was subject to some form of experimentation when she was younger, the Shopkeeper had said in disgust, to answer Yor's question of Why?! after he'd said, We’ve received notice of a contract out for the kidnap of Anya Forger.

Horror swallowed her whole. People who would kidnap children, experiment on children, on a toddler — a school wouldn't be off limits to such people.

“We’re approaching, Thorn Princess,” the driver said and Yor was already diving out of the car before it drew to a stop. Called a distracted Thank you! as she slammed the door behind her. Lucky, that she didn’t meet any neighbours as she flew into the building and up the stairs — the front door to home in front of her, Yor sprinted. Loid would be at work, Anya at school so she could dispense with caution — 

She was quick with her keys. Threw the door open and — 

And something was wrong.

Her heart pounded. The rush of her blood demanded urgency. Could the wrong feeling be her imagination?

Yor stilled, concentrating, her hand on the handle.

Imagined? No. But wrong ? Not… Not exactly…

Scanning the entryway, the kitchen, the living room, nothing seemed strange. Nothing was out of order. Her forgotten mug from the previous night. Anya’s crayons on the coffee table. Loid’s sweater neatly folded over the couch arm.

The sunlight filtered through the windows. The apartment was quiet. The air was still.

And. Something… something wasn't right.  

What could it be? It wasn’t anything obvious. It was a… It was just that the apartment had a… had a strange aura. 

Could someone who accepted the contract be here…?  

But… No. It didn't feel threatening. Or… Yor frowned. Not… exactly threatening?

If abductors were here, that would make them extraordinarily foolish — and very easy to deal with.

Silently closing the door, Yor listened carefully. Nothing. Check the obvious, Yor… She crept towards Anya's room.

But it wasn't from Anya's room that she heard a noise. 

A strange sound: like a low clunk.

From Loid's room.

With perfect silence and equally silent apology to Loid for invading his privacy, Yor opened the door to his room.

There was Loid, his back to her. Yor nearly sighed with relief, except — except. Something was still strange. Loid was hurriedly doing something. Yor frowned, tilting her head. It was only with a familiar grinding snick —

I know that sound… A silencer?!

“L-Loid?”

Before she even finished saying his name, Loid had the gun aimed with perfect accuracy at her heart — she disarmed him immediately, reflexively — just as reflexively she had the point of one of her stilettos under his jaw, forcing his head up — and felt a second gun muzzle pressing into her rib cage.

“What —” She began but Loid was looking at her with an expression she’d never seen. Devoid of any emotion whatsoever, his eyes cold, assessing. The expression alone marked him as dangerous, even if his gun hand hadn’t been as steady as it was. Will I have to kill him —

No, Yor! This is Loid — 

This… This is Loid.

Right…?

“Someone has taken Anya,” Loid said. Yor’s stomach dropped, her hands turned to ice. 

I’m too late — ! Where is Anya? Where is Anya? Where is Anya? She must be so scared. No, Yor. Yes, Yor. She’ll be scared, but she is brave. I’ll get her back, there must be a way to find her, it couldn’t have been too long if the Shopkeeper didn’t know and — 

“I don’t know where they've taken her,” Loid went on, and Yor refocused. His voice wasn’t like she’d ever heard it. On the surface, it was as emotionless as his expression. But she could sense something beneath. Something — something dangerous. Not that she had anything to fear for herself; she’d never, ever, thought of Loid as dangerous. She hadn’t thought he could be — 

The Shopkeeper had said, It so far does not appear your husband was involved in what was done to Anya Forger, and Yor had had thought, Of course not! How was that a question —

The man in front of her now begged the question. Yor's hand tightened on her stiletto.

His eyes flicked to her earrings, her hair pins. His expression sharpened. “You’re with Garden… If you’ve been sent to kill me, can I request you wait to try until Anya is safe?”

Yor was never the quickest thinker, she knew. There were few situations she felt truly in her element. One had been here, in this house, finally, after months and months and months, though that seemed to be slipping away from her with each moment she looked into Loid’s eyes and didn’t know the man looking back. The other was in her work as a contract killer, but that, too, was beyond her now, for all her hand around her stiletto was steady.

Nothing is more important to Loid than Anya, she had told the Shopkeeper. Was it true? Who of her targets would react in the way he was? He'd asked her to wait to kill him until after Anya was safe… Kill him. Kill Loid?

She knew her next question wasn’t the most important. But it was the one pressing against her teeth. Faintly, she asked, “Why would I have been sent to kill you?”

Finally, finally Loid’s expression wavered. Just a flicker, but it was long enough for Yor to feel as though he weren’t completely unknown to her.

If she had been sent to kill him, it also would have been opening enough for her to take him out before he could pull the trigger.

It seemed he realised the same thing, though Yor didn’t know how she could tell that when his expression hadn’t changed. He lowered his gun, switched on the safety, tossed the gun unerringly onto the bed behind him and held both hands up: an obvious bid for peace. After another breath’s hesitation, Yor secreted her stilettos, and was disconcerted that Loid watched each movement closely, in blatant continued assessment.

Her brain itched. WHERE IS ANYA was so loud, it drowned out so much. Pushed her other questions to the edges. Nothing made sense. How did Loid, a lovely father, widower and psychiatric doctor know how to wield multiple guns? With silencers? She couldn’t know for certain but she was fairly sure that wasn’t normal. He'd never said that was something he knew. And he hadn’t seemed disturbed by her stiletto under his chin. That didn’t make sense, did it? There were experienced assassins who had wept when she’d had them in a similar position. Why would he think she’d been sent to kill him? And how did he know about Garden? And where, god, WHERE IS ANYA?  

“I received a call from Eden forty-eight minutes ago,” Loid began as though he’d read her thoughts. “Anya wasn’t in class, they said. Was there reason for concern.” It was Loid’s voice. He just wasn’t saying the words like she would have expected him to. “I’m waiting on a report from—the organisation I work for. Is it possible Garden has any information?”

“They-they do,” Yor said, swallowing, trying to gather herself. “That’s why I’m home. They told me." Yor stopped, swallowed down bile. "They said Anya had been experimented on when she was younger. That the organisation that did it had gone to ground but they’re back now. It may be connected to a, a warmonger. They’ve put out a contract for Anya’s capture. Because they…" The Shopkeeper’s phrase had kept playing in her mind, chilling Yor over and over and over — "They want back what they deem to be their property.”

Property. What, not Who. A little girl, property — where is she where is she where —

Loid’s expression didn’t change — but the feeling in the house, the strange aura she’d sensed when she arrived, had become far more dangerous. Is — is this feeling from Loid?

“I have to reach out to my contacts,” he said. “I apologise, Yor, I know a lot has changed and we’ll need to discuss it. But I can’t show you how I contact them and I can’t have you witnessing the communication. Please can you go to the living room and turn on the television?” Then he added, finally some inflection to his voice though she did not like it, “I’ll know if you try to listen in. So please. Go to the living room. And watch whatever program is on.”

“How did you not know?” Yor blurted. As though her own question sent a spike of clarity through her, dizzy shock flipped into a flare of white hot anger. The Shopkeeper voiced doubts about Loid, but Yor had wondered, maybe it had happened in the grief after his wife died—? Yor herself couldn’t remember certain things in the year or so after her parents died after all; grief did things to the mind and to memory. She’d been lucky nothing happened to Yuri in her moments of lapse and still felt spikes of guilt for imagined could-have-beens. She had thought to herself that if some evil bastard had taken advantage of Loid and Anya in the vulnerability of their grief…!

But that couldn't explain, could it? For Loid not to know, he'd have had to be another person entirely. Surely? If he had known of Anya's past, then he could have guessed who had taken her. If he’d known, they’d have taken precautions — or how could he ever have let Anya out of his sight? Trusted her to school buses? How could he have invited a stranger into his home as his wife? She demanded, “How did you not know what had been done to Anya?”

If Yor didn’t know better, she’d think Loid’s face blanched as though he were going to be sick. But if it did, it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and all he said was, “Please go watch TV, Yor.”

Yor glared, for all the good it did, Loid looking back at her with that same blank, uncompromising expression. She couldn’t remember the last time someone hadn’t flinched when she glared at them this way. Her hands hurt with the effort to keep from — What? She didn’t want to hurt Loid. Eyes burning, she just wanted to do, say something, anything, which might crack that mask — what if Anya sees this man? Won’t she be scared? — but — the more time she waited, the longer Anya was in danger, with the evil people who’d taken her. Who were going to experiment on — 

Yor turned, and left. She went to the living room as Loid asked, and turned the television on.

Then she went to her room, closed the door behind her. Quickly changed. Began to gather what she’d need. To think that this morning she had been planning to ask the Shopkeeper's advice on growing chamomile — She didn’t care about what Loid was up to — if it brought information they could use about Anya, fine. But beyond that, well. It was beyond her. Loid Forger was not someone she knew — and that… that made her lightheaded, just for a breath.

Yor shook herself. No time for that, Yor. She had only done two retrievals. This situation was drastically different from either of them. She didn’t know what to expect here. She should have asked the Shopkeeper more questions; he may have at least been able to offer guidance on how to treat people who worked for the organisation —

But he had clearly thought she would know in time to prevent the kidnapping.

It had already been too late.

And what — what was she thinking? This organisation did some sort of, some sort of experimentation on children. Anya had just turned seven; in a handful of months, Yor would have been with the family for a year. Whatever experimentation must have been when Anya was younger. Five… four?

Her bedroom door opened — almost silently, the TV switched off, but whoever he was, whatever training he had, Loid Forger wasn’t quite as good as she was. 

Yor stilled, her hand tightened on the dart she’d been considering. It had a mild neurotoxin, not enough to kill but more than enough to incapacitate.

Given Loid Forger’s interest in the National Unity Party, and that Party’s involvement in experimentation when they were in government, the Shopkeeper had said when Yor insisted she trusted Loid, Please do me the favour of being extra vigilant in his company nonetheless.

How does a loving father lose track of his toddler daughter long enough for her to be experimented on without his knowing about it? Could… Loid be involved…?

“I didn’t know. And I wasn’t involved.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“They’re the obvious questions,” he said. Perhaps it was foolish, wishful, but she accepted his answers, and moved on.

He was standing in the narrow shadow where light didn’t fall in the short entryway of her room. Somewhere in her mind, she acknowledged the effect. Somehow his eyes still glinted, the rest of him in threatening silhouette. Perhaps he thought she wouldn’t be able to make out his features, but she could. Her eyes were one of the primary tools in her work. That expressionless… mask…? Was still mostly in place. Except for a faint shadow of the nearly ever-present wrinkle in his brow.

She would have previously said that meant he was worried for Anya, angry at the people who had taken her. But now she didn’t know.

Her hand tightened on the dart.

No, Yor! If he has information, you need to get that first!

He seemed to have a similar thought, because he said, “I have information. If you put the dart down, we can discuss it.”

Put it down…? She could do that; she had a blade in each wrist guard and two others within split-second reach. If putting the dart down would get her what she needed…

“I won’t ask you to trust me,” Loid said once she’d put the dart back. “But I could have left with this information without coming to you. I think I’ll have a higher chance of retrieving Anya unharmed if I have your help.”

“How can you think that?” It didn’t make sense — whatever else was going on, she had just disarmed him and had him at the end of her blade, a breath from death. He knew about Garden, and that she worked for them. If he knew what Garden was, it should make her as much a question to him as he was to her. How he could trust someone like that to be around Anya — 

“I know you love Anya.” Yor felt that like a physical blow, such that her breath left her. The man before her, Loid Forger whoever he was, made no indication he noticed this, only went on in the same inflectionless voice, “Garden’s reputation is a neat piece of propaganda, most believe it to be urban legend — including myself until thirteen minutes ago. If even a tenth of that reputation is earned, your skills must exceed even what I observed earlier. And the people who took Anya are…” Was that hesitation because of worry? Fear? Fury? Something else that would make no sense to Yor, generally and from what she’d thought she knew about this man? “The people who took Anya are ruthless. My organisation is sending transport but has no one available to assist on infiltration. I would appreciate your help.”

“They know where Anya is?”

Loid inclined his head. “With the information you provided, we were able to narrow it down. One seems the most likely. We’ll start there.”

“All right.” Again, she would have thought that small motion of his shoulders was relief — Nothing is more important to Loid than Anya, she had told the Shopkeeper — but that was before. When she’d known- When she had thought she'd known Loid.

She didn’t know this man.

Before he told her of the kidnapping contract, the Shopkeeper had asked Yor if she'd ever noticed anything peculiar — that had been his word, peculiar — about Anya. Something different, perhaps, from Yuri at that age. Her memories after she and Yuri had been orphaned were clouded by grief and fear, and so Yor had used Loid's word to describe Anya: perceptive. Often astonishingly so.

And in contrast to Yor, who had never had any sense that Loid might be… like this.

She asked quietly, “How long do we have?”

“One minute, thirty-five seconds.”

Yor didn’t say anything. What was there to say? She went back to picking through her weapons. Loid left. 

An organisation who experimented on people, on children, who had taken Anya to experiment on her again. Naming her their property. Seeing her as what, not who.

There was no question. She would kill everyone she saw.

Notes:

I was lucky to have help from two superlative betas! Cantare and Countrymint! Thank you both so much for talking through plot, especially as I worrywarted, and for your encouragement! Cantare, my very many thanks also for your questions and thoughts, getting stuck in chatting through spy/assassin particularities (and, uh, peculiarities) and for giving this (and that other thing 🫠😅) a close read! Countrymint, thank you so much for also helping with the summary and talking through that tricky upcoming bit with Yor! ETA: and many thanks to Countrymint for giving a read and having a chat about the revised version of this chapter before posting!

So I'm posting this at almost 3am because a cough/cold is keeping me awake 🤧! I've just done a final review but my apologies if I've missed anything obvious 😅🥴

Title from the cover of Circles by Of Monsters and Men, with a slight grammatical adaptation. Subsequently updated from 'it's only me, what have you got to lose?' from the aforementioned Circles, to 'common love' from Physical by Dua Lipa

 

Thank you for reading ♥ I'd love to hear from you 💐

Chapter 2

Summary:

“Are you willing to follow my lead?”

Why — why did that question make her so angry? It was a practical question in the circumstances. It wasn’t one Yor was typically asked but it wasn’t so far outside the norm.

They were in the backseat of what appeared to be a carpentry vehicle. There were no windows, and she couldn’t see the driver — Loid had guided her into the back without giving her the opportunity to look into the driver’s cab. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since they’d left; how long there was to go; how long since Anya was taken. Too long — Anya, we’re coming we’re coming we’re coming we’re coming —

The metal of the van floor groaned noisily — Yor looked down. There was a dent in the metal from the heel of her boot. The impulse to throw the van door open and take off on foot surged —  I don't know where we're going! she reminded herself, pulling her hand back from where it reached for the door handle. But she couldn't continue this way either — she couldn't just keep thinking about Anya, and worrying about Anya, and being furious at the people who took Anya and horrified at what might be happening to Anya and wondering what might be happening and imagining what might be happening —

Yor glanced towards Loid, trying to keep from clenching her hands around the seat of her chair. Her heart was pounding furiously in her throat. He hadn't reacted, hadn't even looked when she'd damaged the van floor. Maybe… maybe he didn't notice?

No, that didn't seem right.

She took a deep breath, and studied Loid’s profile. He sat beside her, though the seats were separated by a small aisle for which Yor was grateful. She didn’t know what she’d do if she had to sit closer to him.

She couldn’t make sense of what she saw. He looked like Loid. Same hair, same jaw, same mouth, same nose, same eyes. But also entirely different. He must have heard the floor get damaged. He must know she was looking at him. She wasn’t being subtle and in any case someone as skilled as he clearly was must be attuned to someone watching him just as much as she was. But he didn’t look at her. He didn’t comment or ask her to stop. He didn’t make any indication at all. She was on the verge of going out of her mind with worry. But Loid just sat. His arms crossed, minor physical reactions in time with the movements of the car. His mouth was an expressionless line. His eyes had lost their warmth, they were cold and empty.

No, not empty. 

Strangely, inexplicably, his eyes reminded her of the Shopkeeper. The Shopkeeper was never emotionless, he was always pleasant and warm and fond when he was with Yor. Even in the early days of her training when she lacked even basic coordination. But there was always also something happening in his eyes, that she knew she’d never grasp. Some distance she couldn’t cross. That was like Loid’s eyes presently. Loid could disappear into his head; he always seemed to have three things on his mind in any given moment. Is that… Is that it? He's trying to think things through? But… 

But she’d never before felt he was beyond reach. Even distracted, he had still felt close. And never cold. That coldness…  She didn’t understand it.

Almost without meaning to, Yor began, “Do you…”

For the first time since they got in the car, he looked at her. Yor swallowed. There was some emotion there — deep in his eyes, she couldn’t read it, she didn’t know what it was. It felt familiar though, it made her feel some measure of relief. But she couldn’t trust herself. She didn’t trust him.

His eyebrow ticked up. It was — it was like Loid, and it wasn’t. Loid might raise an eyebrow, but he would tilt his head, his eyes would soften, he’d make an inquisitive sound in the back of his throat if she stopped, or he’d ask outright what she’d been going to say. This is… this is…

“I don’t understand,” Yor said quietly, more to herself than to him but his expression flickered again. Again she wanted to feel some relief, but.

She thought he was about to say something but she didn’t want… Before he could, she asked what she’d been about to, “Do you care that Anya’s been taken? Or is this about something else?” 

Nothing made sense and she needed him to tell her that yes, yes he cared. Whatever else was going on, whoever else he was, he cared about Anya .

Loid was silent.

Something was rising in her. She’d earlier named Loid’s aura dangerous: she would show him true — 

He said, quietly, “I care that Anya was taken.” Yor breathed out heavily. She loosened her hands, looking away and pressing her fingertips to her forehead. Then Loid said, “But —”

A knock from the driver interrupted him. Loid turned forward and narrowed his eyes as the driver rapped a complex series of knocks on the divider between them. 

“We’re fifteen minutes out,” he told her once the knocks stopped. “We’ll need a strategy. Have you done many retrievals?”

“Two,” Yor answered without thinking. “I was support for one. And the other, ah, um,” why was she hesitating? Loid knew she worked for Garden, he knew what Garden was. And more than that — he wasn’t who he said he was . What did it matter what this man thought of her?

It mattered. 

It mattered because. 

Because. 

Because she needed it to matter.

Loid was still waiting — so this man and that man both had patience with her. That was a similarity.

“For the other retrieval, I was instructed to kill everyone who wasn’t my client.”

“Hm,” Loid said. “All right. I have a little more experience. Are you willing to follow my lead?”

Why — why did that question make her so angry? It was a practical question. It wasn’t one she was typically asked, but it wasn’t so far outside the norm; if she wasn’t working solo, chain of command was established officially before assignment. But she normally did everything herself once she received client information.

That’s it, isn’t it? I’m used to working alone. 

Yes, and no. None of this is normal. Anya is supposed to be safe at school. And Loid isn’t supposed to be part of this world.

And, a part of her which felt very small added, she had happily followed his lead on many things over the last year, without question, trusting his kind eyes and his lovely demeanour and his calming practicality and his seeming abiding normality , and most importantly because he was so obviously dedicated to his daughter.

And what did any of that mean any longer?

“Who are you?”

Loid met her gaze. Yor wondered what her face was doing, that he was taking so long to answer. “To you, I am Loid Forger.” Why did that hurt more than if he’d struck her? “And to Anya,” he said, some gentleness finally coming into his voice, “I am Loid Forger. Her father. And you are her mother.” Yor stared at him, certain her devastation was plain on her face. It didn’t seem to affect him at all. He went on evenly, “Our intel indicated there were likely security outside —” 

“I can deal with them,” Yor said.

“I don’t doubt it. We can’t risk raising an alarm.”

“You think I’d leave anyone ali—”

“I think one person looking the wrong way at the wrong time is all it takes. If an alarm is raised, they might move Anya, or harm her, or use her for leverage to slow us down.”

He was right. He was right he was right he was right. She knew this. What was she thinking? She wasn’t new to this sort of work. Even on her missions where she could simply kill everyone, she took some precautions to avoid alarms being raised. God, what was she thinking? Of all times for her to disregard her own experience.

Yor smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. Drew a deep breath and tried to convince herself to move into the headspace for her own typical assignments. What was important? What did she need to know?

“You… you can get us into Anya?”

“Yes.”

Yor breathed out. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I’ll follow your lead.”

“Your speciality?”

“Close range.”

Loid nodded, as though this was what he expected. “I have some skill at mid- and long-range.” He fell silent and Yor couldn’t be certain, not when his face was so relentlessly expressionless, but she thought he was puzzling things through. Like he would for the mundane things at home: scheduling and meal planning and — 

“We should try first to infiltrate the facility, and not to kill everyone we meet,” Loid said, voice neutral, but something was moving again deep in his eyes when he met her gaze. Yor almost protested — these people are hurting Anya — when Loid added, “But there can’t be anyone left who can identify Anya or either of us.” 

Yor let out a breath. Off her nod, Loid said, “I have a plan.” And he briefed her.

 

---

 

She couldn’t understand how it was possible. The further into the facility they got, the plainer it became that this was an expansive and involved operation. Everything was rigidly segmented, and they didn’t dither or dally, but Yor still caught signs as they passed: Hybridization — Cross-species trials ; Telekinesis Division ; the sign for the floor they were currently on had read Bio-Implantation . And this was only one wing of an enormous facility. Each sign she read made her angrier, made her more frightened for Anya. We’re coming, Anya. We’re coming, we’re coming, we’re coming, we’re — 

Yor hadn’t the first clue how this sort of operation might work, but she couldn’t imagine it was something quick. It all seemed so long-term. They’d passed a sign that read Sleeping Facilities A, and another that said Bathing: Adults (which had implied an Bathing: Children, and while Yor never hurt any target unnecessarily, the next several after she’d had that thought would be harder to identify than the others.) Even if Anya hadn’t been… hadn’t been a resident somewhere like this last time, she must have needed to come often, for experimentation of this kind? There wasn’t… There was no way to mistake that this place was evil. 

Loid had said he cared Anya was taken — he’d been very clear, for all his voice had still been flat. And Yor — despite everything — Yor believed him. Probably. Mostly? Because Loid had seemed attentive, and indulgent, and demanding, yes, but not unyielding. She had thought… Yor had thought, surely there had to be… she’d never questioned whether Loid loved his daughter. How could he not? Anya was wonderful, and they were so tightly bonded and adorable together… But if he was attentive, indulgent, demanding, and loving, if he was all those things —

Is he all those things…?

Yor had now watched him pick sixteen locks; take seven shots in quick succession with precision aiming, fluidly swapping guns when one ran out of ammunition, dropping each of his targets without blinking; pick up items she hadn’t been able to identify as they passed through an office, construct without slowing something which turned out to be a short range explosive he threw into a room of targets, incapacitating several, the resulting commotion distracting the rest so she could take them out without resistance; and…

And, if he was that capable, that competent, and if he loved Anya as deeply as she had thought he did then, “How — how could you not know?” she asked for the fifth, sixth, twentieth time, she didn’t know, as they moved down an empty corridor. “It doesn’t make sense. Unless…” Unless he was involved? But no; Loid had killed at least half as many as Yor since they’d arrived and she had not been sparing. So unless… Unless… 

Yor gasped, “Is she actually your daugh—”

“She is my daughter!” Loid hissed, fierce. It was the most emotion he’d shown since she’d found him earlier and Yor glared at him in mixed surprise and suspicion.

But his response seemed to have also taken him by surprise. There was no change to his expression, still focussed and emotionless. But there was something subtly altered in the way he carried himself, she thought, looking him over. As though he were more defensive — no, that's not it, Yor… He looks more… More protective of himself.

Yor frowned, watching him. She stabbed in the temple some unwitting lab-coated scum who opened the door beside her. Vaguely she registered the person’s shock before they dropped. She’d been feeling… brittle, she realised. But Loid’s reaction, it made something release in her. He may not be who she thought, but at least Anya was his daughter and he was affected, for all he seemed — 

Then he added in an undertone, “I adopted her one week before I met you.”

And for the third time in as many hours, Yor’s world turned sideways.

Loid glanced around the corner, murmured, “Twelve targets,” and there wasn’t any opportunity to say anything else.

 

---

 

Yor wiped her hands of blood on a scarf she’d grabbed from an office they moved through. She is my daughter — I adopted her one week before I met you —  

The two statements weren’t incompatible of course — Yor broke someone’s neck — Anya was impossible not to love. But. But.

She watched Loid glance around a corner, then roll into the hall, taking two shots in quick succession, followed by two voiceless thuds that proved his aim was, once again, true. 

He glanced at Yor, nodded that the corridor was clear. Just as he’d done many times since they’d arrived. Just as Yor had done to him many times since they’d arrived. She trusted his assessments; he trusted hers.

Why?!

That they worked well together was — was confusing. But they always had… Hadn’t they? At home, from the beginning, they’d fallen into a certain rhythm that…

Was she so easily led?

No… No. Loid hardly ever asked her to do anything, especially in the beginning. She had chosen to work hard to be of use in the Forger household, to take upon herself certain responsibilities, to put herself into certain roles and positions. They were doing her a favour — she was the one who proposed marriage, after all. Loid had only asked her to pose as his wife. But some of it was also that… was that she had quickly loved Anya, and with Loid… her feelings about Loid had been, were complicated — confusing and, and embarrassing, maybe, now — but, but in the least, she had fairly immediately respected him. 

And Anya… Yor never had any sense at all from Anya that Loid wasn’t her father. Hadn’t always been her father.

He couldn’t… he couldn’t be so terrible, could he, if Anya loved him so dearly? If Loid was devoted, Anya was devoted right back. Yor never had the sense, even when they argued, that Anya feared Loid.

But would she have seen it? Would she just have dismissed it? What had there been to fear?

No. Her instincts saved her life, saved Olga’s life and the three other people she’d protected since then. Even from highly skilled assassins, Yor could feel their intent. She hadn’t ever felt anything dangerous from Loid.

Until. Until today.

But that danger was on Anya’s behalf — four times it had also been on hers, on Yor’s, when she was in the middle of dealing with one target and Loid had taken out someone trying to take advantage of her busyness. She’d have taken care of it; whoever ran the facility had given their workers some training but they were no real challenge. And Loid must know that. But still he’d done it. And she’d felt —

“Anya…” Loid said and Yor was beside him that instant, looking in the same window.

Loid picked the lock as swiftly and silently as all the rest. He opened the door, and threw an arm across Yor’s chest when she moved to run past him. She nearly stabbed him, but he was surveilling the room quickly and — Yor breathed — that was smart. He was right. 

He said quietly, “Do you see a threat?” And when Yor shook her head, went on, “Neither do I. Will you please lower the blinds? I’ll lock the door.”

Yor nodded, and as she moved away, Loid carefully closed the door and slid the lock into place. As soon as Yor closed the blinds, Loid took one final sweep of the room, glanced at her with a nod. As soon as Yor nodded back, Loid took off at a sprint towards Anya exactly as Yor did.

“Anya,” he breathed, skidding to a stop beside the bed and brushing hair from her face. His hand was bare; somewhere between the door and Anya’s side, he’d removed his glove. Yor gripped the edge of the bed. Anya seemed to be asleep, her mouth hanging open. It was so familiar and so normal, so out of place here , her stomach turned. “Anya,” Loid said again quietly, stroking his hand over her hair, “Wake up.”

“Pa… pa…? ” Anya whispered, rolling her head into Loid’s hand. He swallowed hard, raising his other hand as though to touch her when it seemed he remembered he still carried a gun. He settled for using the hand already in her hair, smoothing his thumb over her forehead. Anya didn’t stir again. 

“Is she drugged?” Yor asked.

“I don’t know. She’s hard enough to wake up on a normal morning but. I think so.” Loid pressed his hand to Anya’s cheek. “But we. It doesn’t matter if she is. We’ll take her like this and figure it out when she’s safe. I have people I trust at the hospital.”

Yor stroked Anya’s forehead. Her horns were missing, nothing there but her hair tangled and crimped from where they usually clipped. Someone touched my daughter’s hair — the bed crunched loudly and Yor released her grip, dropping the shards of wood and pieces of mattress fluff unceremoniously onto the ground.

She passed her hand gently over Anya’s head, murmuring her name.

“Mama?” Anya tried to open her eyes but it looked almost like her lids were weighted. 

“Definitely drugged,” Loid said. That danger rose around him again. He glanced at Yor. “You should carry her.”

“Are you sure?” She had promised to follow his lead, and Loid had been unerring from the moment they left the van; it was hard for her to judge, but his tactical skills seemed likely to be a match for the Director, perhaps even better. And she already desperately wanted Anya in her hold. But that implied Loid would be providing cover for her and that… that wasn’t how Yor normally did things. And for all he had shuttered all over again, there was something reluctant around him. He was Anya’s father. …Although, only for a week longer than I have been — not now, Yor. “If you want to take her, I can protect both of —”

“It makes the most sense that I clear a path for you both. You’ll be able to get Anya out if I’m killed.”

“Loid!”

“I don’t plan on being killed,” he said calmly. “We've been lucky that the alarm hasn't gone up so far. This is simply the smartest choice.”

Even still, on Yor’s reluctant nod, Loid did temporarily holster his gun to scoop Anya up. Her head lolled against his chest and he steadied her with a hand Yor thought may have trembled. Yor watched as Loid pressed his face close to Anya’s, turning his back on Yor. That shouldn’t have hurt; they three were a little unit — she had thought they had been a little unit — but Loid and Anya had always had their own bond. The same way Yor had her own bond with Anya. It shouldn’t hurt her, to be excluded that way. They three had had… something but it wasn’t ever whole, was it? She realised it now; she would have said her own secret kept her from them but maybe it wasn’t her fault alone. She wasn’t the only one with secrets, was she? It tore at her — even Anya — Anya… She was desperate to hold her, to make sure she was all right, to have her small weight in her arms and feel the little rise and fall of her chest, know that she was still breathing, that she was still alive, and — and Yor didn’t know what to do with this show of vulnerability from Loid, the roll of his shoulders as he curled around Anya, the round of his neck with his head bowed to hers, but Yor wanted to do something. I don’t know him , she reminded herself. In this moment, that didn’t matter. Her lungs burned, her hands ached with the wanting for them both. But she was shut out. She was shut out, again. And she couldn’t make any demands, oh, but it did hurt. 

Finally, finally Loid drew a deep breath and raised his head, turning back to Yor. She didn’t look at his face, only pulled Anya close when he passed her over. She’s so small, so, so small. Has she always been this small?  

“I glanced at the floor plan as we passed it,” Loid said. His voice had returned to its inflectionless even and somehow that made Yor’s heart hurt more than it already was. “If we can make it down this hall undetected, there’s a stairwell which should take us to the ground floor with minimal trouble. We’ll need to cross the compound, but we don’t need to worry about raising an alarm once we're out.” Yor watched as he pulled his gloves back on, checked the clip of each gun. Reloaded two of them. “Let me grab a couple of things and then we can go.” He unerringly strode around the room taking things, she could only assume to build more explosives. Had he spotted all that from his look around the room earlier…? He returned to her and Anya, already working two of the items together. Watching his hands, he said, “Left down the hall. The last door on the right. Seven flights down. Left out of the door to the exterior. 300 metres to compound perimeter and another twenty-five to our vehicle. This smoke bomb should give us cover.” He raised his head and met her eyes steadily, “If I’m injured, captured or killed, don’t stop. My colleague will take you and Anya to safety.”

She didn’t know where the impulse came from, but in the wake of that directive, a pit opened in her stomach, a burn in her throat, and she nearly leaned forward to press her lips quickly to his. Where — why — ?!

She shook herself. Loid’s eyebrow twitched and Yor said hurriedly, “I understand. Left. Last door on the right. Seven flights. Left, 300 metres, twenty-five more to vehicle.”

Loid nodded. “Ready?”

Yor looked down at Anya, boneless against her chest. She brushed Anya’s fringe aside, and lightly kissed her forehead. Then she adjusted her hold so she could more easily access her weapons when needed and she met Loid’s eyes. His mask had dropped. His expression startled her. Longing? Fear? Grief? Loid — ? but he shuttered it almost immediately. 

Words cluttered her throat, rubbed her raw all over again, but really what could she say? Nothing, not right now. “Ready.”

Notes:

My many thanks again to Cantare for the close read, for reassuring me when the writing was making my head spin, and for asking questions that made me think and improve! ♥♥♥

I'm going to aim to have an update every 1-2 weeks and will try my best to let y'all know if there will be any delays! I have a big chunk of this written already so I'm fairly confident this is workable :3

Thank you for reading ♥

Chapter 3

Summary:

They hadn't been long in the van when Anya began to stir.

They hadn't been long in the van when Anya began to stir. A small whimper at first, Anya's little leg stretching, poking uncomfortably into Yor's stomach. Relief made Yor's hands shake — Careful, Yor — as she shifted her hold gingerly, making soothing sounds. Silence had hung tense between Yor and Loid since they'd left the facility, the van seeming overly loud as it drove them away. That shared fear eased a little as Anya sniffed noisily, moved again, her hand clutching clumsily on Yor's dress.

“I’m here, we’re here,” Yor whispered. Slowly at first, Anya's sniffles became hiccups, but then hiccups quickly became cries, and cries became sobs. Yor kept holding her. Kept telling her, “We’re here, we’ve got you. Your Papa and I, we have you, Anya.”

When Anya pressed her face into Yor's chest, Yor held her close. She tried her best to hold herself steady. Each of Anya's sobs pierced her heart. Anya didn't flail but she did shake and gasp and clutch at Yor desperately, and Yor let her, followed each motion, kept her from falling, held her close. She swallowed her own tears burning her eyes, fended off the ache in her throat, forced her heart to keep from shattering. Anya didn't need that; Anya needed her to be strong, and Anya needed her to be solid. Yor could be strong. Yor could be solid. She took what Anya gave, so Anya could let everything out. 

She's so little and so dear and why would anyone ever hurt her —

Yor wasn’t sure how long Anya had been awake when she realised Loid wasn’t doing, wasn’t saying, anything. Curling over Anya, pressing her cheek to Anya’s head, Yor risked a glance at him.

He was chalk-white, staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched and his arms crossed over his chest. The hand she could see was gripping his own arm so tightly she expected he’d leave bruises.

She had no idea why he was holding himself back, not when Anya needed him and he was looking like… like that. She wanted to invite him to — to what?

To do something —

Then Anya wailed for him.

He was turned to them before Yor blinked. His hands lightning fast across the space between them. He stroked Anya’s hair, he rubbed Anya’s back. He didn’t say anything, his mouth still a tight line, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.

But he was there, now. He was there, there with them. And it was, it was better.

Yor drew a deeper breath as Anya took a shuddering one of her own. "We have you," Yor murmured, and Anya softened a little in her hold, under Loid's hands. "Your Papa and I, we-we're here." 

Eventually Anya reached for Loid, and Yor passed Anya across the small space. She clung to his neck and Loid held her close, his cheek pressed to Anya’s head. Yor held Anya’s foot. Laid her hand across her back. Kept murmuring.

 

---

 

Anya had been quieter, only offering soft, damp hiccups or sniffles every once in a while. In Loid's hold, under Yor's palm, Anya's back had stopped heaving. There was still a sick knot in Yor's stomach, a lump in her throat. Her heart hurt, and her dress was damp. But it was a little easier to breathe. I wish I'd thought to bring tissues… Although… Where would they fit? All my pockets are adapted for weapons…

The driver knocked on the divider, startling Yor and Anya both. Yor withdrew a little, still holding Anya's foot but pulling her hand from Anya's back in case she needed to act. But Loid hadn’t jumped or tensed: he only raised his head, concentrating on the pattern being knocked out.

“We’re nearly to the safehouse,” he said quietly, glancing at Yor. 

Before Yor could question — safehouse? — Anya mumbled, “Stay with Papa.”

That — that stung. Don’t be ridiculous, Yor. Loid is — is her Papa. Of course she wants to stay with him. But Loid had tilted his chin down, expression surprised, the most familiar he’d looked in — in hours, some colour back in his cheeks. He started rubbing a circle into Anya’s back when suddenly Anya tensed in his hold, her hands tightening on the collar of his shirt. Yor's stomach dropped, watching Anya press her face more tightly to Loid’s neck.

“Oh, Anya,” he murmured after a moment. Yor was missing something — it was like they were having a conversation she could only hear part of. That didn't make sense when they were sitting right in front of her.

Anya hiccuped again and whispered shrilly, “Stay with Papa?!”

Yor watched Loid draw a deep breath. “Stay with Papa,” he said firmly after a moment. Loid looked over her head at Yor. “Have you swept a safehouse before?”

She’d forgotten entirely about the safehouse. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts. “Yes, I — yes.”

Then the corner of Loid's mouth tugged down — exactly like he did when he was about to ask if she would possibly mind doing the dishes and taking out the trash tomorrow as he’d be working late — and it was so disconcerting, so familiar and ordinary, that for a moment the whole stress and horror and confusion of the day left her, replaced by warm normality.

It crashed back down on her on the next breath, cold and scary and sharp. Yor swallowed thickly, gripped her dress tightly in her free hand, squeezing to ground herself. 

If he noticed, Loid didn't react, only said, “Would you mind sweeping the safehouse? I’m certain my colleagues have done so already, but I find I can’t relax until I’ve done it myself. And in the circumstances, I don’t want to bring Anya in until it’s been done.”

His expression, his tone, were exactly — exactly — like a request for her help at home, and without thinking, Yor found herself saying, “Yes of course, Loid,” because helping him had never been a question before, had it? And she had worked hard, hadn't she, to earn his trust, to convince him to ask for help at all?

“Thank you, Yor.”

It was only after he’d turned back to Anya that it struck her. Because it didn’t make any sense; he’d just said he only trusted a space when he himself had checked it, and now he was asking her to do it in his place? And now that he knew who she was — what she did… She could almost understand, from what he said, wanting her help to get Anya. But… But that was one thing. And this was completely another. And of course, the circumstances made checking it himself difficult but even so — “You — you want me to do it?” 

Anya raised her head to look at Yor at the same time Loid turned, and cold guilt flooded her. Anya’s face was blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed, her cheeks damp and streaked with tears, snot around her nose. She looked sad and tired and sick, and Yor had disturbed her from the comfort of her Papa’s hold. 

Yor reached forward, wiping Anya’s nose and stroking her head, saying quickly, “I’m so sorry, Anya. I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry. You stay with your Papa. I’ll — I’ll take care of it. Don't you worry.”

“Papa trusts Mama,” Anya told her, her voice croaking a little. From all the crying, Yor thought, her heart turning, before the words actually landed. Papa trusts Mama — huh?

Loid briefly tightened his arms around Anya. Why? What does that mean? It flustered Yor, not to know. It seemed almost like reproach but his expression had again fallen to neutral. Anya looked up at him, blinking, rubbing her eyes. Then she said again, this time to Loid, almost like she was telling him so, “Papa trusts Mama.”

After a long moment where Loid stared at Anya who stared back at him with a small, confused frown, Loid said quietly, “I do.”

She was staring. She could feel herself staring. But it — nothing made sense and watching the two of them together — she was on the outside again, they could understand each other just by looking at one another, and Yor, Yor had felt that a little bit, maybe, sometimes, with Loid, but now —

Yor gave herself a shake. Not now, Yor! Trying to make sense of, of everything, was making her head spin. 

I, I may be on the outside but I can still help.

"Okay," she said softly, "I'll be quick," and then because she thought Loid wouldn't want quick in case it meant poorly, she added urgently, "But thorough!" And then because it was always what she promised, even if it wasn't enough, "I'll — I promise I'll do my best."

Everything in her itched — too much was normal and too much was strange and she didn't know Loid and she desperately needed Anya safe and —

The van, mercifully, drew to a stop and turned off its engine. So before Loid or Anya could say anything, she threw the van door open, said, "See you soon," and slammed it behind her.

 

---

 

Through the back of the carpentry workshop their transport van had driven into, down a long corridor, then up an echoing set of stairs, was the safehouse.

The safehouse was incredibly grey.

The walls were grey, the ceiling was grey, the cabinets and the doors and the curtains. Each of the main rooms: kitchen leading into a small living area, with two bedrooms and a washroom off it. The floors were — well, Yor scuffed the toe of her boot against the linoleum. Possibly they'd been white or cream once, but they, too, were now grey. Grey was very nearly everywhere she looked. The sofa was an old fabric thing in a faded pink with three sad-looking cream cushions. And the dining table, small and made of beat up light wood with three chairs. And the… the beds. Two of them. They weren't grey. It seemed someone had anticipated a child: one of the beds did have a new cheerful yellow bedspread with matching yellow pillow cases, and a few stuffed animals. One of stuffies was even a dog that looked sort of like Bond. That's a lucky coincidence. The other bed Yor tried to think about only so long as it took her to search it for any sort of booby trap. Though she did notice it was a mellow sort of green.

Halfway through, she realised she probably should have been checking for listening devices as well, and had to start over.

She didn't find anything dangerous or intrusive. It wasn't where she would have chosen to bring Anya, or to spend time herself, but… The safehouse was secure. It was safe. It was private. If that… If they, if they needed that.

It was also very, very grey.

 

---

 

Anya had just fallen asleep. She was clutching the stuffy that looked like Bond, her hair a mess on the pillow. Yor wondered vaguely if there were a brush in the bathroom — or shampoo even. She'd check it in the morning. Anya had asked Yor and Loid to stay with her. Yor intended to.

The few hours since they'd arrived in the safehouse had been — not difficult, because Anya was rarely difficult. Even if today of all days, Yor would have understood. But Anya had been… mostly herself, confusingly. Maybe a little tired.

When Loid had brought Anya in after Yor gave the all-clear, she had immediately perked up, wiggling out of his arms, declaring she was on the hunt for gadgets. Yor had instinctively glanced at Loid but he had already been stepping back towards the door. I have to debrief my organisation, he'd said. Distant, cold again, not meeting her eyes. Loid always met her eyes — she was the one who might look away. But Loid, Loid always watched. That she couldn't see his eyes… the room had felt suddenly smaller, the knot in her stomach tightened sickeningly. I'll be back as quickly as I can, he'd added evenly. And before she'd really been able to register he was leaving, or thought of anything to say, the door was locking behind him.

He'd left.

Left Anya with Yor in this awful grey place after — after everything —

Alone with Anya, all her senses on high alert but with nothing really to train them on, Yor did her best to keep Anya occupied. They explored, inasmuch as it was possible in such a cramped, empty place. Anya's disappointment at the lack of gadgets had stymied Yor until she pointed out the television was newer than theirs at home. After Anya had twiddled dials, poked buttons and commented on what she said was its superior sound quality, she had set it to a channel broadcasting cartoons. When Yor had sat on the couch beside her, Anya crawled directly into Yor's lap without asking.

"Anya…" Yor had started quietly. Anya shifted in her lap, looking up at her. Her face was still a little puffy from crying but she wasn't pale any longer. What a relief, Yor had thought, some tension melting from her shoulders. Still, it's best to ask… "Anya, are you all right?"

Anya had nodded, wide eyes serious. "Anya's safe with Mama," she said.

"Oh," Yor whispered, her eyes prickling, wrapping her arms around Anya and hugging her tightly. Until Anya had squirmed, and with the littlest bit of whining under her voice, said, "Mama, the cartoon —"

"Oh, of-of course. I'm sorry." Yor released her, only for Anya to settle her back into Yor's chest, pulling Yor's arms back around her and resting her little hands on Yor's forearms.

They watched cartoons for nearly two and a half hours straight. Yor still wasn't sure of the name — the cartoon may even have changed once or twice — but whatever the shows they watched were, two and a half hours was too long. She didn't normally watch so much TV and couldn't watch cartoons the whole time they were here… however long that might be. Her ears were ringing, her eyes feeling dry. Maybe it would be different if this were a Garden safehouse, but she didn't know where they were, she didn't know who kept this house for all Loid seemed satisfied. Yor wanted to stay alert: the noises of the house were new, strange, and sometimes she couldn't tell what was house, what was cartoon, what was outside the house and maybe of concern.

Exhaustion had tugged at her and that wasn't acceptable. None of this had ever been a problem at home. Although… Yor had never thought she needed to be on the defensive at home. Is that going to… change now…?

She would need to find something else to do with herself here, while staying alert to Anya.

Loid had arrived back just as an episode ended.

His return had been — confusing. When he opened the door, when Yor looked over and saw his familiar jaw, his familiar height, shoulders, the tease of his hair from under his hat, it had felt a little like the first breath she had taken in, in days, seeing him again. But that wasn't — and he wasn't —

Then Bond had bounded in, nearly knocking Loid down to get to Anya, and Yor had had to wipe her cheeks of spilled tears.

It was only when Loid said a little dryly, "I also brought dinner and groceries," that Yor startled into action, automatically joining him in the kitchen to help unpack.

That had been difficult — they'd never had trouble in the kitchen before. It had always been easy; somehow always familiar. If Loid was cooking, Yor was setting out the dishes. If Yor was washing dishes, Loid was drying them. If there were groceries to unpack, they unpacked them together… They worked well. She hadn't ever really thought about it before. 

But not in this kitchen; not in this place.

This kitchen was different; it was more cramped, and of course it wasn't theirs— or rather, wasn't the one Yor was used to. But that hadn't been the problem. They never physically bumped into one another — thankfully — but it… it had been awkward and uncomfortable, and anger prickled under her skin, half-formed questions cluttered her mind, and Loid's face had been… not blank exactly, not like earlier, but it hadn't been like it usually was, not even the sort of tension she was used to seeing on him, that wrinkle in his brow, but Yor had felt like she should still be able to read his expression: her eyes weren't making sense of him —

Somehow she was always in the way or he was always in the way — until finally Loid had said, "Why don't I handle this?" his voice kind but strained, and Yor —

Yor had fled to where Anya was cuddling with Bond.

Eventually, they had eaten. Yor hadn't tasted anything, and Anya didn't finish her meal. Loid's plate was nearly untouched.

When it was time for bed, Anya had asked, her voice small, if they would both stay with her. "Of course, Anya," Yor had said immediately, at the same moment Loid had nodded stiffly. Anya had crawled under the covers, wiggled and huffed, as Yor stood as far from Loid as it was possible to do in the small room without (she hoped) letting Anya know anything was wrong. Finally Anya had pointed, "Mama here," to a spot halfway down the bed, just below Anya's toes. Yor had dutifully slid herself into place, pressing her back to the wall and… It was silly, but with the wall at her back, Yor had felt a little better. Better than she had since Loid had left them in any case.

Then came, "Papa here," and Anya had pointed to a spot beside her pillow, near the edge of the bed.

Yor had swallowed in relief that Anya hadn't put him beside her, but Loid had tensed, hesitated. Yor had glared without meaning to — not that he noticed, staring at the spot without a shred of emotion on his face. After another moment, though, he had drawn a breath and sat gingerly. "Papa relax," Anya had mumbled, and nearly imperceptibly, Loid jolted. After another tense moment, he stretched his legs out along the length of the bed. He reached out a hand — and Yor's heart had pinched, at his hesitation, and then again at the soft affection as his hand dropped lightly, patting Anya's head.

And now, finally, Anya was asleep. 

Yor had barely let out a breath before Loid was moving. Yor glanced up, ready to demand why he was leaving when Anya had asked them to stay and he had agreed —

But he wasn't leaving. He had produced from somewhere a file, setting it on his lap. She didn't know what it was, but something about how he held himself made her shoulders tense again.

She forced them down as Loid raised his head and met her eyes.

Swallowing heavily, Yor had to look away from the grim shadow in his eyes. She glanced at the file, then forced herself to look back at Loid, and meet his gaze.

Nothing was all right, and even though it shouldn't — it shouldn't — it did help, seeing Loid's eyes, and… And that he was looking at her again.

"This is Anya's file from the facility," he told her quietly. Queasiness made her hands clench. Yor glanced at Anya, whose mouth already fallen open in her sleep. Yor breathed through the ache of affection and looked again at the file.

Loid's fingers rested lightly on it — it didn't seem to be a thick file. Hard to tell from where she was sitting and the angle, but Yor thought it may only hold a handful of pages. That was probably, maybe, a good thing, right? Better than if the file was large? Maybe… maybe it wasn't quite as horrible as she'd been imagining —

"I thought you…" Loid glanced down. "That you would probably want to read it, too."

Something shook under his voice, something was pained in his eyes, and Yor breathed heavily against the ache in her chest, tightening her hand against the urge to reach for his.

That wasn't what they did.

They didn't touch.

And more than that — You don't know this man, Yor. She pressed her fingers into her eyes, fending off the sting of tears. She was tired, and the day had been long and difficult, and it wasn't about to become any easier. 

And I miss before. I miss Loid, she allowed herself. There was no shame in tears, but she didn't want them in front of this person she did not know. This person she missed, who was both a stranger, and who was also sitting there, beside her daughter — his daughter — their daughter — considerate, and caring, like she expected of him from the beginning —

Her breath shuddered, but she thought the risk of tears passed. Dropping her hand, she blinked her eyes open to meet Loid's again. It was a strange relief, to find his expression had shuttered once more.

Loid's gaze flicked down to the file and back up to Yor, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Yes, please," she said softly.

Loid nodded. Carefully open the file. Dropped his head. He read quickly, eyes moving down the page as Yor watched his expression grow somehow colder, the blood draining from his face. Her heart was in her throat, pounding as though she'd spent the last hour running. Her eyes darting from Loid's face to the page and back again. Objectively she knew he flipped the page quietly but somehow the faint snap seemed as loud as a gunshot.

Wordless, he held out the page to her when he was done. It was an older sheet but still crisp, a date in the top corner marked it from three years ago; a fresh stamp indicated an update from last month and another from today. The ink was a little tacky under her fingers. It looked — it looked unassuming. It could have been some harmless document from one of the archives at city hall. Not something which talked about what had been done to her daughter —

Yor's eyes wouldn't focus. She shook her head. Blinked until the words made sense. Then she forced herself to read.

The organisation had brought Anya in when she was three years old.

Her blood was positive for… something Yor didn't understand. But whatever that positivity was had made her appealing to them.

Overleaf outlined Anya's physical details, her diet, some brief sentences about her behaviour. But a line at the bottom caught her attention. Over-emphasis on play and drawing. Prone to crying when denied. Yor's hand shook from the effort to not destroy the page. Subject complies when isolation is emphasised.

The next page was already waiting for her, resting half on her knee and half on Anya's toes poking up from under the blanket. Yor took it up, and blinked down in confusion. "Hm? This isn't…"

Stamped in the corner, in big block letters, read: TELEPATH.

It didn't make sense. 

"What do they mean," she whispered to herself. Telepaths didn't exist; they were as real as the talking penguins and polar bears of Anya's cartoons. Was it… code? Or — she remembered the Shopkeeper's question from that morning. Is there anything peculiar about your husband's daughter? (Husband's daughter grated anew.) Yor had answered that Anya was perceptive. Was that what they meant, too? More perceptive than average?

Without meaning to, Yor looked up, "Loid, what do they mean?"

Loid was staring at the page she held. "We found her in the Telepathy wing," he said quietly, evenly. Yor remembered seeing that sign; she hadn't put together that it was the last they'd passed before finding Anya. But that didn't mean — "And in the car," Loid added, "She was responding to my thoughts."

"She was — What? No!" Yor covered her mouth, and glanced quickly at Anya. Anya slept on, a little drool spilling from her mouth, and fondness welled up, swift and fierce and so deeply rooted in her heart it ached — she pressed a hand over her chest and made herself look away from her daughter's face, look back at Loid. He gazed back at her sombrely, patiently — No. Mindful to keep her voice at a whisper, Yor asked, "What do you mean, Loid? That, that isn't possible. That she responded to…"

She trailed away. Of course. She remembered now. That interaction which had seemed to Yor as though she could only hear half the conversation. Because. Because that was exactly what had been happening. Anya was talking in response to things Yor couldn't hear. Which Yor couldn't know. Because Loid hadn't said them out loud. Because he had only thought them. Because Anya was speaking to his thoughts.

Her vision narrowed alarmingly, her mind fuzzed, filled with static. Anya can read minds — she can read minds — because, because of things done to her —

At a movement from the corner of her eyes, Yor flinched instinctively. Dropped back into herself and twisted to find the cause of the motion.

Loid's hand was frozen, half raised towards hers gripping the sheet.

Fingers loose, palm open, as though he were going to take her hand. 

But that — no. She was, she was wrong. He had to intend something else. He must have, must have meant to take the page from her. The page she had crushed accidentally.

"H… How is that possible?" her voice barely made a sound, but Loid seemed to understand.

He held out the next page, pointed to a paragraph around halfway down. Yor took it. Read what he'd indicated. Loid continued pointing out particular sections for her to read as he passed her pages after he'd finished them. The more she read, the less anything made sense, the more dizzy she was, a painful throb taking up in her temples. The more Loid read, the colder he became, his fingers not-quite steady and not-quite shaking as he handed her a page, as he pointed to a section.

When there was nothing more to read, Loid collected the pages back. With hands now entirely steady, he organised them, made them into a neat pile, slid a paperclip into place. When he shut the folder, it no longer lay as flat as it had. The page she'd crushed, she assumed. 

She nearly apologised, except. What did that page matter when Anya… When Anya…

Yor opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Loid studied her. She didn’t know — what she was feeling and couldn’t imagine what she looked like. But Loid… His face was once more expressionless. And that… oh, but to look at him like that was lonely, and exhausting. She tried to find something in his eyes, and she thought, she thought there was something there but… but she was heartsick and lightheaded and tired, and she didn't want to keep searching Loid for some anchor she recognised. She wanted him to do that for her, to say something. But she was beginning to realise that he wasn't going to.

She looked away, down at Anya first, still sleeping soundly. Fleetingly, she was tempted to lie down beside her. To snuggle in close, and hold her as she slept, to know she was all right and safe. But… there wasn't the room. And she didn't want to disturb Anya, still sleeping so soundly, still looking so comfortable, so normal, so sweet and so dear.

It wouldn't do in any case. Yor needed to be alert.

She looked away. Down to her own hands, tight on one another in her lap.

Eventually she felt Loid’s eyes move off of her.

Anya slept. Yor said nothing, and neither did Loid.

 

---

 

A strange sound startled her awake. With a silent furious curse at having fallen asleep at all, Yor quickly surveyed the room — Loid was gone, wasn't anywhere to be seen, but Anya was still sleeping deeply. Anya at peace was a relief, but Loid gone —

Bond was sitting at attention, as though someone instructed him to keep watch. Loid…

There was that strange sound again — almost like… like someone being ill. The toilet flushed. Yor hesitated, she didn’t want to leave Anya, but… 

Pulling the blanket so it was up under Anya’s chin, Yor rose carefully from the bed so as not to disturb her. She patted Bond’s head as she passed him, slipping to the bathroom.

There was silence when she pressed her ear to the door. She held for a full count of thirty. Nothing. Her ears must have been playing tricks on her, and in any case, if Loid was in there, he deserved his privacy —

Didn't he…?

Of course he does, Yor! I won't get any answers listening at doors anyway.

She turned away to make her way back to Anya —

That sound — !

She didn’t think, turning the handle — it wasn’t locked. The toilet flushed again, and Loid looked up at her.

Yor pressed a hand to her mouth.

He was kneeling beside the toilet — his eyes dry, but he was so pale, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair sticking up at strange angles as though he’d been clutching at it. The corners of his mouth pulled down under her scrutiny, but he didn’t try to hide or stand. He only sat back, and looked back up at her, resigned. 

What do I, what do I do? I don't know him. I, I don’t know. I don't know what I should — What do I do? What do I do?

Loid didn’t say anything; Yor didn’t have words to say. The silence went on, and the longer she looked at him, the more the day seemed to move in on her. Seconds passed, and her heart beat, and the ache spread until she was hollow with it, and the horror was real, it shook her limbs. And Loid, Loid just looked so, so…

Wretched —

I don’t know him I don’t know him I don’t know him

But she found she’d released the door handle.

It was only one step and then her knees touched the tile.

Her arms were heavy but they also felt empty and Yor reached for him —

He looked unsure, reluctant, and that, that hurt, too — Yor’s eyes stung — Loid's expression wavered in the moment before her vision blurred, and then he filled her hold, his arms coming around her, pulling them together.

Loid’s forehead pressed into her shoulder. Yor rested her cheek on the ridge of his. His breath rattled when he drew it, and Yor curled her arm around his back, resting her hand over the nape of his neck. She closed her eyes, Loid’s arms tightening around her middle.

“She’s safe,” Yor whispered, she wasn’t sure if it was more for herself or for Loid. “We have her. She’s safe.”

“She’s back with us,” Loid murmured. Oh, I suppose… I suppose that’s right. The organisation still exists… Yor swallowed heavily, her hand fisting against Loid’s back.

The organisation which experimented on Anya. Which did… which did those terrible things. Which wrote about her as though she were some thing, some weapon, instead of a beautiful, curious, sweet, energetic, adorable little girl. How… How was Anya still so bright? After everything?

Anya always tells me that even if she’s in danger, her Mama will come save her, so she’ll be okay.

That had been so long ago. Months and months. Yor had hardly known… hardly known either of them then… The memory was a little uncomfortable; she couldn’t say now that she knew Loid. But… In one way, anyway, it wasn’t only Yor who would come for Anya.

Releasing her fist, she tightened her arms around him, stroking the back of his neck, gratitude welling up in her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sniffling. “For saving Anya.”

“Yor —” 

“I’m glad,” she went on, “To at least know that about you.”

Loid didn’t say anything, but his hands spread across, pressed against her back. His hands were warm.

After another moment of quiet, Yor remembered, startled, “Anya can read minds.”

“She can read minds,” Loid replied, sounding dazed.

“Oh god,” she whispered, and when she’d taken hold of Loid’s sweater, she didn’t remember, but she fisted her hand in it now. “She must know that I’m… that I…”

“Kill people for a living?” Loid supplied. Yor tensed but he sounded dry, almost amused. And it reminded her of that first night, and the abiding feeling she’d had since then that he understood, and he accepted, and if he were ever to find out, that he would acknowledge her. And maybe that, too, wasn’t what she thought it was, maybe that, too, was desperately confusing, but — she didn’t think, just pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder to muffle her dismayed, confused, heartsore laugh.

There was no comment on his own identity, Yor noticed, but in bizarre concert with Anya, she could practically hear him thinking it. Just for now, Yor let that question lie.

Into the pause, Loid said, “Yet she’s still so bad at school…?” with such deep bafflement that Yor had to laugh again. 

“She has gotten better,” Yor pointed out, loyally. Though there was still room for improvement, certainly. To at least consistently pass if nothing else. “Maybe she doesn’t want to cheat.”

“Our daughter?” he scoffed. “Just yesterday Anya tried getting out of science homework because she said she could bribe Becky to give her the answers. Anya, who has two bags of peanuts to her name, bribe Becky, the richest child in the class.” This time even Loid chuckled, a short rumble, vibrating against her cheek.

Our daughter.

Our daughter.

Our daughter.

Silence descended. Loid drew a sharp breath and Yor said, “She’s back, now.”

As though he didn’t hear, or perhaps as though that didn’t make a difference, Loid said, low, “How did I not know? What did I miss?”

“How could you know?” Yor asked. “I’m sorry I —”

“Don’t apologise,” he interrupted furiously. “You were right. I should have known. I’m supposed to know. I thought she was just a little girl. Orphans aren’t rare. I’m one. You and Yuri. Many of my colleagues… and I never thought about her past. How can a six year old have a past? No. That’s not true twilight. Anya Williams, Anya Roche, Anya Levski. That also seemed just part of her being an orphan, adopted and returned, he'd said. But even if it was, I should have asked. Nothing before that. Why didn’t I pay more attention to that detail? What if she'd been taken? What if her parents are alive? What if they’ve been trying to find her?”

Yor didn’t know what ‘true twilight’ had to do with anything, or why he’d listed those names, but she did know he would drive himself to distraction, asking those last questions. “Loid…”

Somehow that was the wrong thing to say. She felt it move through his body. Not that they’d been at ease, exactly, but something changed. She didn’t… it had been comforting, but now the question of who he was, the lies he’d told, she’d told, rose between them, became important again.

To you, I am Loid Forger. To Anya, I am Loid Forger.  

Yor pulled away as Loid pulled back. Neither stood. They still sat on the bathroom floor. The tile was cold and hard. The bathroom itself was harsh and alien. Their knees still touched — and… in this strange, cold bathroom, with Loid who she didn't know but maybe knew, even still, Yor couldn’t bring herself to withdraw completely.

“You can go to bed,” Loid told her quietly. “I can wake you, if I get called away. But I don’t intend to leave Anya again tonight.”

“She wants us both there,” Yor reminded him, upset stealing into her voice, making it shake. “I’m not leaving her again.”

Loid watched her for a moment, then said gently, “I’m not trying to cut you out, Yor. It’s been a long day, and you… did a lot.” Learned a lot seemed loud despite being unspoken, as though the same weren't true for him. “I only thought you might want rest.” And space also seemed to linger.

Why was he the Loid she knew again? Or — not entirely. There was still something withdrawn in a way she hadn’t felt with him before. But he was kind again and warm again and for all there was also almost a shroud of mystery around him, he felt familiar again.

It wasn’t fair.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly.

She drew herself up, her knees feeling sharply cold where they no longer touched his.

Without looking to see if Loid reacted, she returned to Anya’s room, and settled back in her spot, part way down the bed, by Anya’s feet. She leaned back. The wall was cold through the fabric at her back. A moment later, the tap in the bathroom ran for a few seconds and shut off. And then Loid came in, and settled by Anya’s pillow. They didn’t look at each other. Yor didn’t sleep again.

Notes:

Hey y'all, I am so touched by your comments on the last chapter! I've read and re-read them so many times and they really made my day. They also helped me when parts of this chapter gave me trouble. I'm going to reply as quickly as I can: I just wanted to say here and right away, thank you so so much 🫶🫶🫶

As ever my many thanks to both Countrymint and Cantare for betaing this chapter! Thank you so much for the close-read and perceptive questions and comments as always, Cantare! And thanks a million Countrymint for holding my hand through my minor midnight meltdown (eh-heh 😅) and for pointing out spots and giving suggestions of where and how I could go deeper ♥!

And as always, thank you for reading 💐

Chapter 4

Summary:

Yor and Loid talk.

Shortly before dawn, Bond suddenly stood, lifting his head, listening closely. Yor tensed, sensed Loid doing the same.

A soft knock sounded from the front door. Yor's eyes slid to Loid, and in the moment before he clocked her looking, his expression made her throat tight. He looked so tired.

Yor looked away when he glanced at her as he rose from the bed, careful not to jostle Anya, still snoring lightly. Bond's tail thumped in greeting when Loid was standing. She wasn't sure, but it seemed even the pat Loid gave Bond was tired. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” he murmured.

Yor only nodded, watching him leave.

She smoothed the blanket over Anya. Weariness tugged at her, too. They'd have to make some sort of arrangement for sleep. But there was no way — Yor wouldn't leave Anya unwatched.

 

---

 

Loid wasn't actually gone long. Yor watched Bond when she heard the front door open, and his soft wags set her loosening the anticipatory fight-ready tension from her body. Loid slipped into the room shortly after, hesitated by the door until Yor met his gaze. His expression was largely neutral, but there was a slight tug down at the corner of his mouth. Yor frowned a little, then more deeply when he indicated he wanted to speak with her outside Anya's room.

Reluctantly, unhappily, she rose and followed him out.

Loid gestured her to the couch, one of the dining chairs already arranged so he could sit opposite her. Yor frowned at this, too. It wasn't… There wasn't anything wrong with it, not really. But something about it made her tense all over again. Why can't we sit at the table? Looking down at the couch, Yor hesitated. What if she did just walk to the table instead…? Would Loid follow, or…?

But things were tense enough as it was. It wasn't exactly the same as when she was on a job, but there was still a sense, itching up her spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck, that a fight was coming — No, Yor… Not a fight, not exactly. But something was coming. And she didn't want to… She didn't want to trigger it. Not until there wasn't any other choice. And in the hopes it wouldn't… come to that.

With a sigh, Yor turned, sat gingerly on the edge of the couch seat. It was old, it was worn. The frame dug into her backside.

When she grasped her hands in her lap and looked across at him, Loid said, “I'll try to be quick so we can return to Anya.” He sounded almost apologetic, but there was something else under his voice. She didn't know what it was, almost like distaste? Or upset? Or maybe it’s just exhaustion, Yor! He never gets enough sleep as it is. 

And it was exhausting for her, after the last twenty-two hours, to keep trying to find anchors in Loid that she knew. They were there, sometimes, but it wasn't easy, and she didn't know whether they were real and he was trying to stop them, or if they were false somehow and — And is it worth it, to keep trying…?

“All right,” she replied quietly.

“I have a request from my organisation,” he said. “For Garden.”

Her hands tightened on each other. “I see.”

“But first I wanted to explain some things.” After what felt like a measured moment, Loid leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loose. It brought him roughly eye-level with Yor and it, it made their distance feel less cold for all his expression wasn’t exactly warm.

But it wasn't normal, or natural. Somehow it was too practiced, too deliberate. It wasn’t how they normally were, it wasn’t comfortable. And Yor found herself squeezing her hands. She had to stop herself from narrowing her eyes. Resisted rolling her neck to ease the tension that had gathered in her shoulders. Will it always be this uncomfortable?

Loid made a small gesture with one hand that lifted Yor's eyes to his. That irked her, too, when she realised that was its intended effect. He began, “I got into my line of work because I want to prevent war. At least, that's the official reason.” Official — ? “The organisation I work for, their primary and guiding goal is that exactly: to keep the Cold War between Ostania and Westalis from going hot.” Oh. Releasing a breath, Yor considered. That wasn't exactly like her own goals, but it was one she could respect. Certainly much of Garden's work targeted warmongers and profiteers. She sagged a little. It was a relief, honestly. “We work to disrupt anything that may ignite tensions,” he said.

“Is that so,” Yor murmured slowly.

If Loid's organisation focused on peacekeeping, it meant that she and Loid, that they, that they were alike, in some ways. For the sake of another, for the sake of something greater than oneself. Wasn’t that what he’d said?

Loid searched her face and Yor tilted her head, studying him in turn. The tension at the corners of his eyes. That little furrow, between his eyebrows. And they were faint now, she only saw them sometimes, but there were lines, too, at the sides of his mouth. Loid almost always had excellent posture, she recognised the impeccable control he had of his body, now, too. But tension gathered, regardless. She had always seen it. And what had she thought, just a few minutes ago? That he never got enough sleep.

No wonder, with the peace of two nations weighing on his mind. What might it take to 'disrupt anything that may ignite tensions'…? Of course he's strained and tired. How could he not be?

To endure such a harsh job… That was also something he’d said, wasn’t it? A harsh job.

Without thinking, hushed, she whispered, “Loid…”

His jaw ticked. To you, I am Loid Forger. 

Yor straightened. Shook herself and fisted her hands in the stretch of her dress across her thighs. Similar goals, maybe. But only, only if… if what he says is true. What else had he said…? 'That's the official reason.'

“You, you said official reason.” She swallowed thickly. Focused closely on his face. “And unofficially?”

Loid held her gaze. His expression shifted away from plain neutrality and into something, something serious.

After a pause, he opened his mouth as though to begin speaking — and instead went entirely still. His whole body as motionless as a statue, captured in that same position: leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His breathing shallowed. His eyes went distant.

It wasn't his name, his reaction had just reminded her of that. What he'd said — To you I am Loid Forger — what he’d said meant, must mean, he went by something other than Loid with other people. Or at least with himself? But Yor didn't have anything else to call him. And she needed to call him, so. “L-Loid…?”

He blinked, once, twice, then his gaze found her face again. But he still wasn’t back, not really, from wherever he’d gone. Yor shifted, leaned forward, called quietly, “Loid?” once more. He breathed in, heavily. Exhaled shortly.

Another breath and then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, “Hm.” Loid looked down at his hands, hanging fisted between his knees and Yor watched in confusion. What just happened? Loid opened his hands, stretched his fingers, then closed them to fists. Flexed them once more, shook them out. Tipping his face back up, the touch of a frown at his brow and mouth. “I decided I was going to tell you. I didn't expect to not be able to say it.”

“To… to tell me the, the unofficial reason you do your work?”

“Mm." Loid cut his gaze to the side. “Maybe… a different tack,” he said in low tones, almost as though to himself. With a nod, he patted one of his hands on his thigh, sitting up straight once more. “When I adopted Anya, I didn't like children.” Yor reared back. Didn't like — what?! “Or more accurately, I thought I didn't. Anya often listens to you, Yor, but surely you've noticed that Anya and I are… sometimes… at odds.” An almost confounded exasperation descended over him, and despite everything, Yor bit her lip against a spike of amusement. There was something long-suffering about how he admitted, “It's been like that from the start.”

And she resisted, she really did, but her best efforts were not enough. She couldn't keep from smiling slightly. “You're too similar.”

“We're too —?” Loid’s face went blank with shock, and a small laugh escaped her. His eyes focused on her, something — something almost wanting flashed across his features, captured her breath — Then it was gone, and Yor exhaled. Loid just huffed, offered the faintest curve of a rueful smile. “I… I suppose I'd never thought of it that way.”

“Stubborn,” Yor told him, a sort of giddy exhaustion making her eyes damp and a little sore, tugging at the muscles in her cheeks as she couldn't help smiling openly. “And insistent. What's that phrase?” Yor tilted her head, trying to remember. “Immovable object and… and, and… what was it?”

“Unstoppable force,” Loid supplied weakly.

“Right, unstoppable force.” Yor laughed, a little wild, a little overloud. “I'm not sure which of you is which,” she said, bringing her hand to her chin to consider, something soft and aching filling her chest. She should stop this, it didn't make any sense, but it was so nice, this sudden lightness between them. Teasing Loid a little. It might be incorrect or it might all be lies or maybe it was even true, for all that truth might not matter. But she needed this —

“Perhaps Anya is the unstoppable force,” she decided. “The world does sometimes seem to bend to her will. Hmm… So that makes you the immovable object.” She laughed again, feeling almost delirious.

“Yor…”

She wasn't imagining it this time. His expression, that wanting — No, it's, it's more than that, Yor — it's l-longing, all over his face. Tense all through his body. It stole her breath, it hollowed her chest. What does it mean? What does it mean? No, that’s not — what do I do? It spread through her limbs, tensed the muscles in her legs as though she might make to stand —

She tightened her hands painfully, pressed down hard into her thighs, to keep sitting, to keep from waving her hands between herself and Loid, as though she could disrupt the pull of it. Before she could get control of herself, Loid asked softly, “That metaphor is incomplete: Where are you in it?” And it was as though her heart's blood had spilled between them on the floor.

“I — I don't — I'm n, I'm not a — Loid,” urgently, desperately, Don't make me say it, please — “You were — you were explaining to me —”

The full force of his longing, his question, stayed trained on her for another long suspended moment, then, shaking his head, he released her, saying slowly, “You're right. Of course.” Yor took a deep breath, a little shaky, to ease the pain in her chest. Pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed the strain from her eyes.

When she looked at Loid again, he wasn’t looking at her but his expression had cleared. That little furrow in his brow reappeared, though, as stubborn as he was. He cleared his throat and when he looked at her again, he back to his usual way of looking. Yor had no doubt he saw more than she realised when he looked, but at least it didn't… feel as exposing.

He picked up from where he left off, as though there hadn’t been any interruption, saying evenly, “After I adopted Anya, some things happened which upset her. She… cried,” his jaw tightened, and Yor suddenly remembered the van journey yesterday. How she thought the clench of his teeth looked painful, how he might hurt himself by how hard he gripped his own arm. She flicked a look at his arm, not that she could see anything through his sweater. Looking back to him, it was clear he had followed the motion. Yor tipped her chin up but Loid didn't say anything, only continued, “And when she cried, I realised I'd lost sight of my… unofficial reason. To be clear, I don't want war. I am dedicated to my organisation's goals of preventing it. There's been more than enough of it. And also I…” He breathed out slowly, his eyes losing focus. “Hearing Anya cry, I remembered. I want a world where… Where children…” Yor bit her lip, gripped her knees, keeping herself seated as Loid's breath increased slightly in tempo, a slight grey pallor falling over him. His hands tightened to fists he pressed into his thighs and as though it rubbed his throat raw, he visibly forced himself to say, “Where children don't have to cry.”

“Loid…”

Can this be… true? She studied him, studied the way he was tense beneath that casual posture. Studied the way his expression was neutral but his eyes were unhappy. Studied him as he waited for — for something from her?

Judgement? Does he think I, that I judge my clients? They come to me already judged —

No, Yor. No. That isn't — He wasn’t watching her as a client anticipating death. He was watching… watching like, like… like how they’d been? Like Loid — or maybe whoever, whoever he really was — waited to know what she, Yor, his w-wife or, or whoever she was to him, to know what she, Yor as herself, thought. Whether she… accepted…? Understood…? Whatever that specific question, he was looking like somehow what she thought was… important?

Yor rubbed her eyes. That couldn’t be. She was tired — so was he. That, at least, she was certain of. He may even be more tired than she was. She had had a full night's sleep before the Shopkeeper talked to her yesterday morning. Loid rarely slept as much as he should. And if what he said was true, then had he ever been well-rested? Since he began his, his profession?

She wasn’t thinking straight. She was making too many assumptions and reading him all wrong. Imagining her thoughts were important to him was, was, was nonsense. It would mean she wasn’t on the outside but she was. She was always on the outside. She was just in a muddle, that was all. Everything was confusing, and what he said made sense, except that yesterday had upended everything she thought she'd known and so, none of it really made sense, did it?

That’s right. So what do I need to know to make it make sense?

“Would,” Yor blurted, then stopped. That question wasn't the most important one; it probably wouldn't even clarify things. It didn't… it didn't matter, it wasn't important. She shouldn't ask she shouldn't ask she shouldnt ask —

“Yor?”

Her shoulders slumped. But I need to know.

“Would you be telling me this, if your organisation didn't need something?”

She regretted it as soon as she asked. If he said no, then what? She was dizzy enough, trying to figure everything out. And her heart was still raw and stinging, like cold wind passing over a fresh wound. The answer had to be no, didn't it? Who was she to Loid? What did she matter, with motivations like those? With a job like that? She was on the outside and Loid had his noble goals (if they were true) and never minding all that, she still couldn't understand how or why they'd come to be —

“Yes,” Loid said.

Yor’s mind emptied. “What?”

“I was already planning on telling you,” Loid said, “Before this request from my organisation.”

Yor stared. Whatever else, it was like that cold wind had stopped blowing. Her eyes stung, welled, blurred her sight. Embarrassed, Yor dashed them away. “Why?” she croaked.

For the first time since all of this — possibly for the first time she could remember — Loid looked… he looked uncomfortable. She might even call it more than that, call it mutinous, for all it was a very mild mutiny, some undercurrent in his eyes, in the thin line of his mouth. Then he let go of a breath, and leaned back in his chair. Aborted a motion, as though to cross his arms over his chest. Instead Loid pressed his open palms to his thighs, his arms straight but loose, putting her in mind of a diversion. Except — Protective? Again? She couldn’t say why, it wasn't the same, but it reminded her somehow of that moment at the facility, just after he'd said, She is my daughter! —

“Because,” he said, voice low, still steady, “I want you to know.”

I want you to know.

Suddenly she was standing. Why am I — ? She didn't know — her heart thumped hopefully, her eyes burned, her legs thrummed, she needed to move — but she had — had the inexplicable urge to, to reach for him, like last night, the warmth of his shoulder against her cheek, of his back under her palms, or, no, to touch her fingers to his face, to that stubborn furrow or to his clenched jaw or to the soft sweep under his eye —

“Yor…?” Loid asked uncertainly, his face tipped up to look at her.

She recoiled from herself — what am I doing what am I doing what am I doing — Clutching her hands by her chest (we don’t touch we don’t touch we don’t touch I don’t even want to tou—) Yor made herself sit and find Loid's eyes again. For only the second time since this began, it didn't bother her, was almost a relief, that his expression had cleared into the impassive once more.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered shakily. “I don’t know what I,” she shook her head, refocused, “I… I believe you,” she told him. Low, but firm. “About this.” He was impassive still, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. There was no other change to his expression or his bearing, yet still Yor had the impression something was looser about him. But she… she felt as disorientated as ever.

And they weren't done. That's right… He said he had a request for Garden…! Yor tightened her hands. Swallowed. Forced a breath. Focused. Said, “G-go on.”

“The organisation I work for is called Wise.” Loid paused, watching her closely as though he expected her to know them. She didn't. But it… sounded like a nice name? The world could probably use more wisdom, after all. When she didn't say anything, Loid continued, “They want to finish what we started at the facility but don't have the resources to do so alone. They want to request Garden's help — or employ Garden, as the case may be.”

“Oh. I — what do you mean finish what we started?”

“You and I… were thorough but only dealt with a handful of floors in a large facility. Wise have already taken steps to prevent the workers there from leaving or communicating out, but that's stretched them thin. They also…” Loid's voice further emptied of emotion as he went on, “I've been benched, so I don't know more than that.”

“Benched? Why?”

“My orders yesterday had been strictly reconnaissance. I disobeyed.”

I disobeyed.

Strictly reconnaissance.

Disobeyed. Reconnaissance. Strictly reconnaissance. Disobeyed. Reconnaissance reconnaissance strictly reconnaissance disobeyed disobe—

“They wanted you to leave Anya there if you found her?”

Her hands tightened with such force her joints cracked, each snap! overloud in the pre-dawn hush, but Loid didn't blink, didn’t flinch. 

“At the time, with the resources they thought I had, and Wise's modus operandi for similar situations,” he said as though it were reasonable, “They would have considered it likely to be the option with the best potential outcome —”

“How can you say that?!”

“I understand their calculation, even if I don't agree with it.” Loid hesitated. “It also isn't the norm for Wise to kill as many people as we did in the circumstances.”

Yor forced herself to loosen her fists, to ease some of the fight from her spine. She frowned, but she knew that Garden's methods weren't universal. She wouldn’t want them to be. But even so. Begrudgingly, she conceded, “I understand that a little better. But leaving Anya —”

“Was obviously out of the question.” Yor glared at him and Loid sighed. “Wise would never have left her there long, had I followed their orders. Likely at most she would have been there for another day. But that was unacceptable.”

“Yes it was.”

There was no reason to be angry. Loid hadn't done that. He hadn't gone along with what Wise wanted. He had saved Anya. He had brought Yor along so they could save Anya together, so they could do it better than if he'd been on his own. Anya was back and she was safe with them. Safe with her. And, and safe with Loid. Because he'd chosen to save Anya.

Why am I so angry?

Because it was a possibility? Or —

Yor turned a hard look at Loid — her stomach dropped. Even now, his expression, his posture hadn't changed. But some of the colour had drained from his face as he watched her, and she didn't know how or why, but she was certain it was because of how she was reacting — not from fear of her anger — it irked her, that he didn't seem affected by her at her most threatening. Although. Then again. Do I really want him frightened of me? — No — No, probably not — No, Yor! Loid afraid of me would be, would be so h-horrible — the thought alone made it hard to breathe — I don't, I don't want that. I just, just want…

I want him to make sense — and he didn't — he doesn't, and he isn't, isn't who I —

And we're stuck here and this isn't helpful — !

She needed — needed to, to let everything out, to gather herself, these two impossible things — and Loid sat there, and watched her, and waited — and she couldn’t leave and there was nowhere to be truly alone and —

Fuck!

Forget dignity, Yor — ! Loid had seen her in more embarrassing and inexplicable moments than this. She threw her hands over her face and folded over herself. Breathing into her palms, she let everything rage through her, the confusion and the fury and the sorrow, pressing her forehead into her knees.

She took the time she needed, the time she probably didn’t have, but she took it. She used it. She shook with it. Loid might see her shake and gasp, but the specifics of what that meant she kept between herself and her breath and the darkness of her eyes squeezed tight.

When her breathing settled, within her control, from ragged to smooth, Yor drew one more deep breath. She let it out slowly, felt how it blew into her hands and gusted over her face and across her throat and chest, to escape into the room, where it spread and mixed and dissolved, free.

She passed her palms over her cheeks as she rose to sit up straight. She didn’t look at Loid — couldn’t — not yet — but she thought she could probably speak.

“I’m sorry. I know… I know you wouldn’t…”

“It’s all right, Yor. You’re right not to trust me.”

Stung, her anger flared, and she snapped around with a glare —

Which fizzled, almost instantly.

He… He looked…

“You need rest, Loid,” Yor murmured impulsively, gently, “Sleep,” then bit her tongue when her words caught up to her.

Loid tipped his head to one side, his gaze abstracted, almost as though sleep hadn’t occurred to him. It probably hadn’t. “I may try later.”

Yor closed her eyes for a single moment of frustration. Opened them again as Loid said, “For now…”

“You, you said Wise had a request for Garden,” Yor said tonelessly, feeling every bit of her own weariness throughout her body, pressing at her eyes and tugging on her shoulders.

“Mm.” Loid pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Have you been trained to read cyphers?” When Yor shook his head, Loid opened the letter himself. “It begins:

“Greetings. We contact you on behalf of Wise. We trust you are aware of our reputation, as we are of yours. In the interest of ensuring complete shared understanding, however, you will know us from our work on the following.”

Loid looked up at Yor over the top of the letter and explained, “And they list three operations of which the head of Garden will likely be aware.”

On Yor’s nod, Loid went on, “We write to ask for aid, or to hire your services, as the case may be. In the wake of the discovery that one of our operatives is married to one of yours, that their daughter was kidnapped by an organisation for experimentation, our operative and yours undertook a retrieval operation to secure their daughter’s safe return. The way in which they did so meant they jeopardised the safety of other civilians, as well impeding the more pragmatic goal of garnering understanding of the organisation’s operations and aims. In order to ensure the organisation in question does not go to ground before we have the opportunity to correct these mistakes, we are undertaking an operation to secure it.

“We hope for your aid; we understand your organisation may operate more pragmatically. With that understanding, we offer the following sum for your contract.”

The amount listed surprised Yor. It was roughly equivalent to three minor jobs or one large job for her. She didn't know how Garden made financial decisions outside of her salary, but she suspected that amount would not tempt the Shopkeeper under normal circumstances. Wise was lucky the Shopkeeper had already said Garden would be looking into the operation.

“Our operative disobeyed orders and acted against Wise protocol. We have benched him. We request your operative also be benched for this operation, as we believe your operative similarly compromised.”

“What?!”

“I'm sorry, Yor. I didn’t want it to come as a surprise.” But so saying, Loid read on without waiting for her response. “If these terms are satisfactory, you may affirm your participation through the following methods.

“We hope to work with you on this operation, and that it may prove the start of a fruitful alliance.”

Loid began to reset the letter. Yor bit her lip, aside from the request for her benching, something else was sticking in her throat. “Did we really… Did we put other civilians at risk?”

Loid stilled. He didn’t raise his head but he looked at her from under the fall of his fringe. Almost gently, he said, “Probably. If there were other test subjects…”

“Oh,” Yor whispered. “Is that… Is that part of the reason for Wise’s…” Protocols… She couldn’t quite bring herself to finish the question. She swallowed, shifted her weight. Loid lifted his head, and he… He gave her his politely-listening expression. It shouldn’t have eased anything, not at all, but somehow it did make her feel better about admitting, “I didn’t… I only thought about Anya… Imagined Anya…”

“Me, too,” Loid said after a moment.

For the first time in all of this, Yor felt fully sure of her read of Loid. Hushed, she said, “That isn’t true, Loid.”

She was watching him, watching his face. Saw how he didn’t wince, how he maybe actually almost seemed relieved. 

Loid took a breath. Then he looked back down at the letter, resumed folding it, sliding it back into its envelope. He held it out to her, met her gaze. Held it, steadily. Open. “I calculated. I made a choice.”

Was it better or worse that he’d consciously decided… Better or worse that she hadn’t?

That isn't it, Yor… What she needed to decide was, was it better or worse that she would make the same choice, even had she known?

Because she would. She had no doubt.

Those poor people. 

Yor stared at the letter. Then slowly reached out and took it. “I’ll… I’ll have to leave Anya to…”

“Yes,” Loid said quietly. “If there were another way —”

But Yor shook her head. She didn’t want to leave Anya, but perhaps it would be a good thing, to have a little time away.

“Wise will arrange for you to go wherever you need to.”

“City Hall,” Yor said absently — oh no, maybe I shouldn’t have said that!? Then again, at this point, between her and Loid, and if Garden accepts Wise’s proposal to work together in future… What did it matter?

Loid simply nodded. “I’ve asked them to take you hom— back to Park Avenue first. They’ll get you in without anyone knowing. You can collect a few things, and if anyone is watching, seeing you leave the house for work like normal may buy us some time.”

“Okay.”

A moment passed, Yor mulling the revelations that there may be other people stuck in that awful facility — that she wouldn't be able to help them — But Anya also needed her, and, and maybe… maybe — 

Almost tentatively, it seemed, Loid said, “I also wanted to speak with you about how much you tell Garden about Anya.”

Oh no. She hadn’t even thought of that. The Shopkeeper wouldn’t have an issue with what they’d done at the facility, Yor was certain. But about Anya — 

Off her hesitation, Loid said, “I want to have our stories aligned.” Yor blinked, refocused on him fully. ‘Stories aligned’? He explained, “I haven’t told Wise about Anya’s telepathy.”

Hm?

“Why not?” she asked in confusion. Working to prevent war and protect children made them trustworthy, didn’t it? Or… no, protecting children was Loid’s unofficial reason, so maybe… Maybe… Her hands turned to ice. “Why would you need to keep that from them? What — Loid — what would they do if they knew?”

“I trust Wise, and my handler,” Loid said evenly. “However we aren’t fully autonomous. Those who… fund us don’t always make decisions I agree with.”

Before Yor could decide how she felt about that — how to respond to that — Loid went on, “I’ve told them a partial truth. That Anya was taken because they found an abnormality in her blood.” Yor had understood that from Anya's file, that she had been positive for something they wanted. Yor nodded. “But that as far as I — as far as you and I know, nothing came of it. That they’d just,” his hands tightened to fists, “They’d experimented on her without evidence of the outcome they desired, or of anything else for that matter. When her file turns up, it will say the same.”

“When her file turns up?”

“The file will be doctored to support this version of events. That doctoring has to wait until I can move freely again, so I wasn’t able to turn it over when I debriefed. I’ll… it will turn up for Wise once it’s ready.”

Yor drew a deep breath. That sounded — complex, but she didn’t really care about that part of things. “And Wise will… believe that?”

“They have no reason not to.” After a pause, Loid said, “I don’t know if you trust Garden. And I apologise if it’s an imposition to request this of you. However if Wise has its way, it will work with Garden in future. That relationship will in all likelihood involve information exchange. If Garden’s intel differs, Anya may be at risk.”

Trust Garden? Yor trusted the Shopkeeper and the Director completely. She hadn’t ever really thought about Garden-the-entity before. Was it not just the Shopkeeper, ultimately? Still, she didn’t really like the idea of anyone knowing about Anya who… Well, she didn’t really like the idea of anyone knowing about Anya, full-stop. And beyond that, no one who didn’t absolutely need to know. Yor wasn’t even sure who would make that list.

Or — she supposed also anyone Anya told herself. Although Anya hadn’t trusted herself or Loid, so Yor couldn’t imagine who would make that list, either.

“All right,” she agreed sombrely. Loid’s relief, again, seemed genuine. 

He said, “Thank you,” and for some reason, it made Yor cold.

Is this how Loid felt last night when I thanked him…? She hadn’t meant it to be… 

Or had she? The implication was there, wasn’t it? That he may be the kind of person who would abandon…

“She’s my daughter,” Yor said lowly. “Of course I’ll protect her. Just as I’ve always protected her. What you’re saying makes sense and so I agree. Please understand. If I thought you would do something to endanger her, I would protect her from you, too. Just as you would protect her from me.”

It seemed like a long pause before Loid said sombrely, “I understand.”

“Loid… I’m sorry if, if last night, when I thanked you for saving Anya, I implied that you…”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Loid stood and Yor tipped her head up to see his face. His expression was clouded, but when he met her gaze, he smiled slightly. It wasn’t, it wasn’t a comforting smile. It was too sad. Or perhaps… perhaps that was just how she felt.

Loid shrugged, and said kindly, “I told you, you’re right to doubt me.”

Something miserable tugged at her, she felt a little ill, a little dizzy. She had told Loid to sleep, but she could feel how everything over the last day was draining her, how she needed sleep, too. Only there was no time for that, was there?

And Loid seemed to be waiting for her — to agree? To stand? 

Whatever he may have wanted, she chose the latter. And when she didn’t say anything, Loid said, “Wise will be here to pick you up in around an hour and a half. We have our toiletries from home, they're in the bathroom if you want to bathe.”

“Maybe, maybe in a moment,” Yor said, stepping around him, too widely, too obviously, but what did that matter? After all, he’d said now, twice, that she —

No. 

No.

It did matter. It mattered because…

I want you to know.

You're right to doubt me.

I want a world where children don't have to cry.

I was already planning on telling you.

You're right not to trust me.

Yor shook her head. It mattered because she chose for it to matter.

Yor's hand curled into a loose fist — she pumped it at her side. That’s right… I’m going to, to figure it out. And I'm going to decide.

For now, she had an assignment. And he was right, she did need to bathe. And to change, for that matter. She was still in the same dress she wore to the facility with all its stains.

There were more important things first. Yor turned towards Anya’s room. She said over her shoulder, “I want to be with Anya for few more minutes before I have to go,” and she didn't wait for a response or worry about one. Right now, she had other important things.

Notes:

My very many thanks to Countrymint and Cantare!!! This chapter was, perhaps ironically, a joy to write, even as it started as one thing, sort-of kind-of became another, and pushed stuff that was meant to happen here into chapter five. Countrymint & Cantare, your feedback for the rough (rough!) draft was invaluable, and Countrymint, thank you for the nearly-final draft vibe check and for discussing/working through those particular parts with me ♥ Cantare, I'm also very much looking forward to playing with some of what we brainstormed next chapter >:3!

Thank you for reading ♥💐

Chapter 5

Notes:

Hey team, sorry this one took a bit longer than intended. Mostly because it was meant to be one chapter but wrestling with it has resulted in splitting into two chapters 🫠 the upshot is, the next chapter will be shorter and also along swiftly, as will the two chapters after that! Hurrah!

Being home was…

Was…

Yor stood in the kitchen. She'd gone to her room to change, and had ended up simply… breathing. She had worried, that maybe her room would feel wrong. And perhaps it ought to have, given everything. But it had only felt… safe, and comforting. Like home. Standing by her bed, she had rested her palms on her chest, and breathed (In… Two… Three… Four… Out… Two… Three… Four… Repeat. Repeat. Repeat) and calmed her heart. She only gave herself a minute or two, but the tightness in her chest eased just a little, her stomach knots settled just a bit. Exhaustion still plucked at her eyes, the echoes of intense shock and horror and fury and grief and confusion still in her blood, trembling at the edges of her mind, around her heart. But standing in her room, breathing, helped.

What a relief.

She turned to her tasks. Resecured the gear she hadn't taken with her when they went to get Anya. In her rush, she'd only hurriedly put them away and she could hear the Shopkeeper in her mind, tsking her for being such a rookie. Changed into her work clothes. Quickly packed a few things — a few days worth of clothes, underthings. She’d taken a few more weapons, another vial of neurotoxin, before putting her gear away properly. That sort of thing.

There wasn't much time, but she had the thought that she ought to drink some coffee. She didn't ever, not really. Tea was her beverage of choice. But she thought the more immediate caffeine boost from coffee would help clear her mind for speaking with the Director, and she knew Loid favoured a particularly good brand.

So she set the coffee to brew.

Then she’d gone to Anya’s room. Before she'd left the safehouse she and Loid discussed her gathering a few things — playing cards, books and craft supplies from Anya's room; a few changes of clothes. It had seemed simple, obvious. But actually being in Anya’s room… Yor tried to see it with new eyes. There wasn’t anything that seemed out of place, nothing that would ever have made Yor think, 

Oh! A telepath!  

It just looked like the bedroom of a little girl. A little girl who loved cartoons, and animals, and especially stuffed animals. Normal, small child things. Normal, well-loved, small child things, Yor amended. There were Anya’s sports things, the things Yor had bought her, that they had used to train together for Anya’s sports goals. Balls, stretching bands, sweatbands, yoga mat, sports clothes, jumping rope. And along the wall, her textbooks alongside all the endless books Loid had bought her. Every issue of Bondman they’d both read, side-by-side on the couch, sticker collection books, and then book upon book upon book: picture books and colouring books and choose-your-own-adventure books and an especially large collection of random special interest books written for children. The sorts of things she used to scrimp and save to buy Yuri, whatever struck his interest. Anya wasn’t half so bookish as Yuri had been, but the books were there just the same, just in case. Some of their spines were pristine; many were cracked, some heavily. Yor looked at the books on the shelf. She thought about Anya, and she thought about Loid.

On Anya’s bed were her favourite toys. Chimera, Penguinman, the lion from the zoo whose name Yor could never remember (possibly it was just Lion? Lionman? Following in the pattern of Anya’s naming scheme). Yor bit her lip. Should she take one? All of them? No, she couldn’t take them all — in fact, she certainly couldn’t take Penguinman, he’d be too big, too obvious. Chimera, then. Yor tucked him safely on top of Anya’s folded clothes, a few issues of Bondman, one or two of the other books randomly chosen, the textbooks Loid had requested, craft supplies and the yoga mat.

The early morning light filtered through Anya’s window. There’s no way we can leave that window as is, knowing what we know. It would need some sort of reinforcement; impenetrable countermeasures to intruders. Her own experience breaking into places that ought to have been fortresses could help them decide what to do. Perhaps Loid had some experience in that area, too. She remembered his hands moving swiftly, deftly, picking the locks at the facility. Black leather gloves silent as he worked. She’d never noticed their high quality before. Nor their fit. Mm, she thought, biting her lip, Almost certainly some experience.

The scent of coffee breezed into the room and Yor jolted into movement again. She put Anya’s bag down by the door. 

Out of habit, she took down Loid's mug, and found herself reaching automatically for Anya's with a half-thought about hot cocoa.

Yor found herself, one hand gripping the edge of the cupboard door, the other gripping the countertop, and coaching herself to breathe through the sudden clench in her chest.

Coffee scented the air more strongly and the bubbling hiss of the machine burbled to a stop and Yor made herself release the cupboard door, the countertop, wiped her hands over her cheeks.

Pulling out the coffee pot, she hesitated. “I don't know how I like it,” she said to the pot. 

She knew the way Loid took it — how he'd originally taken it when she moved in, and then the way he changed it after a few weeks, and now his latest preference, actually decaf, most of the time. 

She knew how she liked her tea. Whether it was black (dollop of milk, maybe a squeeze of lemon if they have one spare (If? No. Loid ensured they had one spare, how had she not thought of that before?)) or green (as-is) or herbal (lick of honey, usually). She could make herself any of those with her eyes closed.

But coffee…

Yor glanced at her watch. Looked at the coffee pot. Turned to the fridge — is the milk even still good? What, Yor — Of course it is, it's only been a day —

She’d been here, around this time yesterday, gathering her things to see Anya off and head into work. “It's only been a day,” she murmured weakly, pressing a hand to her temple against the swirl of dizziness.

With quiet apology, she poured the coffee down the sink, quickly disposed of the grounds and rinsed the mechanism, making mental note to clean it properly before it was next used. Then she poured out the milk because it certainly would expire in the time they were away, even if… even if she didn't know… how long that might be…

Giving herself a shake, she turned towards the bedrooms again. 

She and Loid had also discussed Bond's food and toys. Whatever Yor needed for herself, of course, already done. And, finally, Loid had said, “If you wouldn't mind, there's a novel on my bedside table, closest to the door,” getting a strange look on his face midway through the sentence, though his voice and pace didn't falter.

Then he'd just… stopped.

Yor had done her best not to twist her hands together, waiting, but she had blurted, “Is-is that all?”

He had searched her face. Then he stunned her for a beat, smiling brightly just like Loid, or like the Loid she'd thought he was. He even tipped his head a little to the side, a gesture she'd recently realised he did when he was trying to put her at ease. Usually it worked, even once she’d realised what he was doing. This time, it only made her more worried. He'd then said, almost cheerfully, “I'm sure Wise will arrange everything else for me. Including enough paperwork to keep me occupied.”

She hadn't known what to say to that, or what to do. Whether to offer to do more, or whether to leave it. So she'd just agreed. Perhaps, she'd reasoned on the journey here, he didn't want her rummaging around his room. Maybe he even regretted asking for the novel.

Stepping into his room now, all she could remember was the last time she was here. The first time she was here. When Loid had become a stranger in the time it took her to say his name.

He wasn’t — she didn’t think he really was a stranger — they’d talked and — but she remembered her breath stealing sharp from her lungs when she’d met his eyes so cold as he’d turned, the ghost of his gun muzzle pressing into her ribs, the weight in her hand pressing the lethal tip of her stiletto to the soft underside of his jaw, forcing his head up — 

She lunged towards his sidetable, snatched up the novel, darted out. Closing the door behind her — she was glad she didn’t need to stay, or search through his things for what he needed, or remember any more, only just stopping herself from slamming the door at her full strength.

 

---

 

“Forger,” the Director said from behind her shortly after she arrived. Yor flinched in surprise. He shouldn't have been able to startle her — that wasn't good. She needed rest. And she could hear the Director's enquiry and rebuke in the extra-stilted way he said, “I didn't expect to see you in the office today.”

From deep in her memory, she pulled up the code phrase she needed. She had only used it once before, 14, maybe 15 years ago. It indicated she needed to speak with him — or the Shopkeeper — on urgent Garden business. The Director's expression rarely changed, but his eyebrows did raise very slightly as she stumbled through it. 

Easily, though, he gave an excuse for Yor to come with him. And Yor, grateful he was so collected, followed him to the private room she knew was regularly checked for bugs to ensure the security of Garden business.

With the click of the door behind her, Yor turned to face the Director. Before she left, Loid had coached her not to say Wise out loud. Not to indicate at all verbally that he had another profession. He said that was very important, even if she was certain she wouldn't be overheard. 

She understood that; everything in her recoiled from saying anything out loud at all about any of it. 

As for his other profession, that was easy. It was something she had done for years herself.

Except... she was supposed to communicate there was a, a double life. So… How?

She hesitated as the Director waited expectantly. “We, um,” she began, “We managed to, to get Anya back safely.” Thank god. Something about saying it out loud made her knees weak with relief, released some of the tension from her shoulders.

“I'm glad to hear it.” The Director paused before he said, “We?” with just the slightest stress on the word.

“My, my husband and I,” Yor said. Stopped again. What had Loid told her? If you must, reference it as related to my work as a psychiatrist. I would expect your contact to understand — or when they pass it onto the person or people in charge at Garden, they'll understand in conjunction with the letter. “My husband helped me retri— bring her home. In his work as a psychiatrist, he has had to… has had to track people— patients. That is! When they're in danger. From, from themselves.”

The Director's focus narrowed. “I see. I believe we understand the challenge of undertaking such an endeavour. It's all for the good.”

Yor tipped her head, she was very tired and her mind was very full, but she was fairly certain the phrase was All to the good, wasn't it?

Lifting her eyes to meet the intent concentration of the Director's, understanding came. It wasn’t a statement. It was a question. What is your assessment? Is Loid Forger friend or foe? The Shopkeeper had been suspicious of Loid, too, she remembered. He'd wanted to, to investigate Loid. Had asked her to be extra vigilant. She'd entirely forgotten that.

Pressure gathered behind her eyes, making them dry.

Loid is a good man, she had said to the Shopkeeper. She knew, she knew, she knew she knew she knew she knew she knew, that there was more to learn. And that frightened her a little.

No… It frightens me a lot.

And she was still angry, for some reason. And hurt, though she didn’t really have good reason for that. And confused, which was fair, she thought.

And her heart was bruised, bruised in such a way she felt it everywhere inside.

But.

She had seen how Loid acted for Anya, how he’d protected Yor once or twice when they were at the facility. Later, how he'd been ill and angry for Anya. He said he disobeyed Wise to rescue Anya from those terrible people, even knowing… What that might mean. And that he… the organisation he worked for wanted to prevent another war. And that he, Loid, wanted to make the world better for children. Where they wouldn’t have to cry. That's what he told her. And that… That he'd wanted her to know.

She had decided. At least for now. She had decided that she believed him.

Yor pulled herself tall again. She blinked damp back into her dry eyes and held the Director's gaze. “Yes,” she answered softly. “It's all for the good.”

She pulled out the envelope, passed it to the Director. When you give your contact the letter, Loid said just before she left, It's very important you tell them this phrase exactly, as it will give them the cipher. We've used one we think they should know.

“My husband… He spoke about needing an umbrella for all the rainfall in the town he first worked. The rain made the work difficult, but the umbrella helped.”

The Director looked down at the letter. “Umbrellas have many uses,” he said mildly, sliding the letter into his breast pocket. “Back to work, Forger. As normal. I'll see to your request.”

And so dismissed and so ordered, Yor went to her desk, and attempted to focus on work.

 

---

 

Each second dragged as though she could physically feel

every.

single.

one.

tick

past.

At one point, Camilla threw a paperclip at her. Yor caught it easily of course, but then Camilla had complained: she'd tried calling for Yor five times already and if Yor wasn't going to be useful, what was she even doing there? Wasn't she meant to be away, anyway?

Yor wasn't sure what her face had done in response to Camilla, but even Sharon told Camilla to leave Yor alone. And Camilla had actually looked a little worried when she turned back to her work.

She did try to focus. The Director had ordered her, and after everything that happened, she should do her best to be normal.

But time

dragged.

Driving

her

up the

wall —

All she wanted was to be back home. Or she supposed, back at the safehouse. With Anya. And Bond. And… and Loid.

Each moment away crawled over her skin.

When finally she heard the Director's voice in the hall, she glanced at the clock, expecting the day to be nearly done.

Only two hours…

He came in. Yor sat up straight. “Forger,” he said. Yor felt the attention of all her coworkers focus in, even if they didn't blatantly turn or look. “Your request has been approved. Go join your husband at his medical conference to tend to your daughter's fever. We'll see you in once you get back.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” Yor said, rising quickly to her feet. 

Garden had agreed to Wise's request — and also they'd benched her. 

She didn't like to shirk duty, but she was relieved she would be able to stay close to Anya. And, and to Loid. Until this was over.

“I'll — I'll do my best,” she said.

“See that you do. Fevers can be unpredictable. We can't say how long it will be before your daughter is recovered and you'll be back.”

Yor met his gaze. He hadn't given a specific timeframe for her return, did that mean they didn't know how long the assignment would take?

Worse, they didn’t know how long it would be until Anya would be safe from the bastards who had taken her?

“I…” she trailed off. What was there to say?

She nodded and began to gather her things. “Of course. I will, sir.”

 

---

 

She arrived back to find Loid sitting at the little dining table, going through some sort of paperwork. From Wise already? she wondered. Meeting his eyes under the familiar casual tousle of his fringe, Yor breathed deeply, filling her lungs. As though he'd done the same, Loid's shoulders eased down as he breathed out.

Anya was sprawled in front of the television, her cute little feet in the air, Bond pressed close to her side. She called out a cheerful, somewhat distracted, Welcoming Mama! from her spot on the floor when Yor announced herself. Anya must be feeling safe here… Little tempted her away from her favourite cartoon normally, and as that appeared to be the case here, now, her preoccupation was something of a (confusing) relief. Yor's feet wanted to carry her forward, but if Anya was that engaged in Bondman, it would be easier for Yor and Loid to speak.

The scent of something baking met Yor as soon as she closed the door, and Loid rose from the table, sliding a folder over the document he'd been reading.

It shouldn't prick her, that he was hiding it from her. She would do the same if she had one of her assignment documents from Garden, after all… And yet. It did bother a little.

“How did it go?” Loid asked quietly when he reached her, moving halfways behind her as though to help her from her coat.

Yor tensed in surprise. The air turned strained — that — it wasn't something they normally —

Loid pivoted smoothly, picking up two of the bags she had put down instead.

“Garden agreed,” she answered, voice low as she let out a breath. Shrugging out of her coat, she hung it herself. “But I don't know more than that. The Dir— my contact indicated that they… they didn't know how long…”

“Mmm. They likely don't know more than that,” he said evenly. “Wise estimated a few days. There are too many factors to accurately determine how long it may take. Including how well Wise is able to work with Garden.”

“Garden assassins are professionals,” she said, taken aback, stung. Does he think we didn't work well together…? 

But Loid looked at her, something indefinably tired about him.

What am I doing? I don't want to pick a fight —

She’d forgotten, in her handful of hours away, how grey and dark and cold the safehouse was. The grey seemed very close. Hunching in on herself trying to fend it off, she sighed. “I'm sorry, I know what you meant.”

Loid shook his head. “Don't worry about it.” And before she could respond, he gestured to the bags in his hands. “Where should these go?”

“Oh, um. The bag in your left is for Anya. The right is Bond's. Th-Thank you, Loid.” He nodded, putting Bond's down in the kitchen and making his way to Anya's makeshift room.

With his back turned, Yor let her head drop, toeing out of her shoes. She pressed her hand to her mouth to fight a yawn. It’s been such a long day…

“You can sleep first,” Loid said softly on his return. Had he seen her yawn with his back turned?!

Don’t be silly, Yor. More likely he was thinking of sleep just as much as she was — more, maybe.

That’s right — “On the night before — Uh.” She swallowed thickly against a strong wash of emotion, unable to say what had happened to Anya. She asked instead, “I. I mean. On the night before last, how many hours of sleep did you get?”

Loid, who had been waiting with a patient expression, went entirely still. Since their conversation, his face wasn’t quite so closed, so strained, and though he hadn't entirely lost the pallor he'd had in the bathroom, it had improved a little after their… hug. At her question though, his face cleared — not exactly going entirely blank, but nearly. And drained of a little more colour. He held her gaze, but she had the sense that he was forcing himself. That — that shook her. The only other time she could remember him avoiding her eyes was yesterday after he'd dropped Anya off in the safehouse and then stole away immediately to brief Wise. 

He said, stiffly, “I slept. It’s nothing you need to —”

“I had eight hours of sleep,” Yor said shakily. “And eight the night before. And the night before that. And you, Loid?”

“Something like that.”

To her alarm, her eyes started stinging. “That is the most obvious,” she whispered, clutching her hands, bringing them up protectively to her chest, “Of all the lies you've told me.”

Oh no, Yor… What am I doing – It wasn’t as though she hadn’t also lied — and he wasn't wrong. She really did also need sleep. Did it matter, really, who slept first? Not really, only that she knew he’d had less than her — that for all he had been largely closed off for so many hours (maybe because he’d been closed off for so many hours?) she had such a distinct sense that he was taking everything more poorly than she. And she wasn’t — and she was very much not all right. For all that she was trying her hardest to be. It wasn't as though they could both go and leave Anya alone. Even if they could, where would she sleep, when there was only one other bed? Oh no — she’d also gone about this all wrong. She knew Loid. She knew, sort of, how to convince him of something. It… it usually worked best if she, if she said how she was, was feeling and that was… She didn't want to — not when she wasn't really sure — 

“All right,” Loid said quietly. Yor's eyes flew to his — he didn't seem angry or upset; she wasn’t sure how he seemed. Almost uncomfortable? But that didn’t make sense. Yor swallowed, tightened her hands. His eyes dropped to her hands and he let out a short breath. “You're right,” he conceded, still in an undertone, lifting his eyes to hers once more. “It wasn't eight hours. But I can go for a long time without sleep.”

“So can I.” He opened his mouth to speak, and she shook her head. “Please, Loid. You go first. I… Please sleep. Just six hours.”

After a longer pause, he crossed his arms over his chest. “That's too long. You also need rest, Yor.”

She shook her head again. “Six hours.”

“Four. Then you get four. Then we discuss a sleep rotation for the duration we're here.” 

That was fair. It made sense. But Yor found something stuck in her throat. She didn't want to let go. It's the exhaustion, Yor. Right? Remember? This sometimes happened with Yuri when I was exhausted from training and he pushed me — let it go. It won't help, pushing back like this — 

Then Loid said, “For Anya's sake, we both need rest and to figure this out.”

Something shuddered violently right in her centre.

“For —” Yor took a step closer to Loid, who didn't move; who didn't react at all. She dropped her voice, “Don't use Anya against me.”

“I was saying it for my own benefit too,” Loid responded at the same low volume, unyielding. “It's my turn to ask you, Yor, please. Four hours. I'll rest first, but we agree to four hours each to start.”

Stop it, Yor. Let it go. Let it go let it go let it go —

She tightened her hands into fists — Just agree, Yor ! What’s the matter ? — opened her mouth to say Okay, and instead found herself asking a little desperately, “Why don't you ever react?”

“… react?”

Her breath shook. “When I… when I…” How to even describe — ? “When I'm, I'm threatening…? You don't…” flinch or cower or challenge or counter —  

Loid watched her for a breath, then his look turned inward.

Something caught painfully in her chest. The last time she had seen his eyes do that, had seen that expression on his face, she hadn't known he had secrets, it had been from before. They'd been at the park, and he'd told her about the field and the chamomile. Together, they'd decided — 

“I suppose…” he said quietly, blinking back into himself. “I don't believe you'll hurt me.”

How can that be? 

Against the sudden press of tears, Yor stepped back. After seeing her at her work and after — after she had hurt him previously! Accidentally, embarrassingly, and she hadn't for a long time, she'd made sure, she'd been so, so careful, and also done her best to keep her distance even when — that didn't matter. What mattered was that she had hurt him before— and he'd watched her kill how many people at the facility? 

Papa trusts Mama — 

How can that be? How — 

Loid's hand raised — to touch me?! — Yor flinched back another step. “Four hours,” she agreed quickly.

Loid hesitated. Then he dropped his arm, flexing his hand once by his side. He nodded. “Four hours. Thank you, Yor.” Yor gripped her hands together again. Loid said, “A nurse came to see Anya while you were gone.”

Yor's eyes flew past Loid’s shoulder to Anya, but she was playing with Bond during a lull between shows. She looked normal, she looked, well, cheerful somehow, and the same as always, but — “Is she all right?”

Quietly, Loid said, “The nurse checked her over, and she appears to be physically fine. As a precaution, she also drew some blood to test the drugs that might still be in her system.” He moved to stand beside Yor, looking over at Anya, too. “We should hear back in a day or so, hopefully. But Anya seems…” Yor glanced at him. The furrow was more pronounced on his brow, his eyes shadowed. His mouth tugged down. Yor released her hands, letting them drop to her sides. For all the things that had changed, she was grateful not to be alone in her concern for Anya. Loid went on slowly, sounding nonplussed, “Anya seems fine.”

“She does, doesn't she?” Yor shifted her weight, worrying her brow. “Even last night when you were… When you weren't here. She was a little more cuddly and quiet, but still mostly herself. We watched a lot of cartoons.”

Loid released a breath. “Too many cartoons?”

Yor smiled despite herself. “Mm-mm. It was all right. Although… I can't say I want to watch many more?”

“We'll discuss that too. After we've slept. How to keep Anya occupied. She already chased Bond around for a while after the nurse left, but I'm sure her energy will come surging back again… I don’t want her just watching cartoons the whole time we’re here.”

“She can't help with your paperwork?” Yor asked innocently. Images of Anya's crayon drawings all over what she imagined to be very serious, very official Wise documentation startling a laugh from her throat. She bit her lip when Loid tensed beside her. “Sorry. I… I'm sorry.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw Loid shake his head. “Don't be.” 

There was a short, awkward pause. Yor said into it, “We should probably also talk as a… As a… a… family,” her voice vanished. 

Loid was quiet for what felt like a long time, long enough Yor wrapped her arms around herself. Kept her eyes fixed on Anya. Finally, “Yes,” Loid replied softly.

“About what happened. And… and what we're doing here.”

“Once we've both had some rest.”

“Yes.”

They stood like that, side-by-side but not touching, not close, watching Anya.

Loid adjusted his posture. “There are scones in the oven.” He glanced at his watch. “They should come out in four minutes. Do you want me to wait or —”

“I'll take them out!”

“… All right. Thank you, Yor.”

“Sleep well, Loid!”

He took his paperwork with him.

Yor turned her attention to Anya. Loid had said Anya had chased Bond around earlier; so it was probably time for a bit more physical activity… but maybe after they’d each had one of the scones fresh from the oven.

---

 

The scones were, of course, delicious.

 

---

 

“Say, Anya,” Yor said, resting her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand, surveying the little living room. The couch had removable cushions, and an old quilt across the back. If they also took the pillows, toys and blankets from Anya's room... “What if we built a pillow fort?”

Anya turned bright eyes on Yor, her adorable little face aglow. She had a dusting of scone crumbs at the corner of her mouth, and Yor’s heart squeezed with affection. Anya bounced in her seat, “To rescue Princess Honey?”

“Will I be Princess Honey?”

“Oui!”

From her reserves, Yor drew energy to be bright, encouraging, and she nodded enthusiastically. “Okay! And you can rescue me from the evil, um… evil…”

“Villains!” Anya supplied. 

That would be easy to remember!

“Yes! You can save me from the evil villains!” It was not lost on Yor that Anya turned the game into one where she saved someone who was being kept against their will. Something to think about later, and maybe discuss with Loid. For now, it also meant Yor could mostly sit inside the fort, once they built it, as Anya took it apart from the outside to get to her. And in the off-chance she would need to defend Anya for real, pillows and blankets would be easy enough to burst through. She would keep her stilettos with her just in case. And at least pillows and blankets should be quiet. “We have to be sneaky,” Yor told Anya, raising a finger to her lips. “Your Papa is sleeping, and we don't want to wake him up.”

Taking this directive with a sober nod, Anya hopped down from her seat. Then immediately said loudly, “Anya will get the supplies!” scampering away.

“Shhh,” Yor reminded her weakly, wincing. Hopefully Loid is tired enough he’ll sleep through our play. Pushing herself to her feet, and gathering their dishes, Yor added, “I'll come help after I wash the dishes.”

 

---

 

By mid-afternoon, they'd finished rescuing Princess Honey (eleven times), walked Bond around the living room and kitchen until he flopped on the floor and wouldn’t walk any more, and Yor and Anya had moved onto playing a card game. Anya had made it up, and Yor was losing very, very badly. She wished she could say it was intentional, or maybe even because Anya was reading her mind (something she was trying not to think too much about just yet) but really Yor couldn't keep the rules straight in her head. She had just played a Three of Diamonds which somehow managed to defeat the King of Diamonds but, Anya told her imperiously, still didn’t give her that many points. 

Which was how Loid found them, four hours exactly from when he first shut the bedroom door.

Yor squinted a little blearily at her hand of cards, then tipped her face up to look at Loid. “I'll just finish this —”

But Loid, seeming far more steady after his rest, only shook his head. “I'll take over. You go lie down.”

She stared up at him, Loid stared down at her. Stubbornness was making its way into her jaw —

Anya grumbled that Papa would steal her win, and amusement flickered in Loid’s eyes. 

And somehow, his amusement made it okay to get up and go.

She closed the door behind her, muffling the sounds of Anya explaining the rules. It must have been deliberate, the way Loid had made it clear what side of the bed he'd slept on. She remembered his room, how neatly the bed was made. He’d even straightened the bedspread so the dent from where he’d tossed his gun in their confrontation was erased. But here, the comforter was slightly disturbed, an indentation on his pillow.

Why would he…? 

Yor stood for a moment, leaning against the door, staring at the bed. He'd chosen the side closest to the door, furthest from the window. Was that where he normally slept? It would have been her preference, truth be told, but the idea of sleeping in the same spot as Loid —

A full-body flush swallowed her whole, made her lightheaded. She pressed her palms to her cheeks —

"Stop it, Yor!" she whispered to herself. She had to sleep. There was nowhere else to go. And it wasn't as though he were there now —

This is not the most pressing thing, Yor!! 

It was a nice thing Loid had done. Making it clear what side he'd taken. Then she wouldn't have to be startled by… Startled by… Something? 

Slumping back against the door again, she buried her face in her palms. She was so worn out. And was still struggling to make herself move away from the door! This was ridiculous. It was just sleeping. Like… like a hotel room. Yes, Yor, that was it. It was like a hotel room. Someone else used the room. That was all.

That didn’t make any sense, she knew, but it was enough. By the time she had retrieved her pajamas, dragged off her work clothes and slid into her nightgown, the bed was the most comfortable one she had ever laid in. And it was spacious. There was so much room on her side. It didn't even matter that Loid had slept just beside where she was lying. 

Sleep tugged at her. Yor curled on her side, facing away from the door, away from the bed’s memory of Loid, away from Anya and Loid playing without her in the living room — Remember what's important. When I wake up, I'll have more energy for Anya…  

Only… as soon as she’d turned her back, as she squirmed for comfort under the blanket, pressing her cheek to her pillow, settled in to sleep, the quiet became so very loud. And Yor… suddenly was so very small.

The room wasn’t large, not really, but it felt empty and cold, the grey around her unrelenting. The size of the bed, a boon just moments ago, now felt enormous and the space behind her vast, separated her, kept her far away, far from them — 

That was part of it, wasn’t it? Loid making clear: this is my side, that side is yours. And invisible down the middle is the line between us that we will never cross.

That metaphor is incomplete: Where are you in it?

That was just it — she wasn’t, she wasn’t. He’d asked as though she should be, as though she was, and they simply had to determine where, but she didn’t know why he’d ask that — they both knew there was no place for her. She’d wanted — she’d thought — but she couldn’t even say the word family any longer and have it feel anything other than desperation.

Tears were falling fast, the damp spreading against her face on the pillow. 

After everything they’d learned about Anya, she wished she could, could make it all better — and Loid, Loid who wanted to make the world better for children, who worked to prevent war —

It's all for the good, she had confirmed for the Director. But that good didn't include her. Hadn't included her. Wouldn't include her.

Loid had lied to her —

And she understood, she thought, but it hurt and he lied and he wasn’t Loid Forger —

Which meant she wasn’t really Yor Forger — not that she’d ever been — except that had been her name these last months, the name she shared with — and she’d thought — she’d thought — Yor Forger — that name —

Up surged — everything — all the sorrow and the rage and the horror and the heartbreak, filling her up, all of it from the last day, with nowhere to go, like Yor, stuck here, in the huge, empty, unfamiliar, cold bed — alone —

Sucking in breaths, trying to catch her breath, trying to stop the heaving of her chest, distantly she knew sleep would help. It had been such a long and horrible day, and she hadn’t slept in 33? 34? hours. She hadn’t lied to Loid; she could last a long time on no sleep. But any time she’d done it before, she’d had few emotions involved. Certainly no heartbreak. No confusion no horror no fury, not like this. She hadn’t been bruised, not battered — well, maybe physically, but it had been some time since violence against herself had bothered her. Violence was the norm. Violence towards her body was expected. But her heart? And over this last day…? So sleep, sleep, she knew she needed to sleep and that sleep would help.

But the sleep that tugged at her all day now felt far, far away. She couldn’t catch it. And all her heartache was very, very close. Very, very big. She couldn’t keep it in.

She tugged the pillow from under her head, hugging it tight to her chest, curling into a ball around it. She buried her face in the pillow that wasn’t hers, and wasn’t soft, and wasn’t familiar, and wasn’t home. She let it swallow the sounds dragging from her throat so Anya and Loid wouldn’t hear, and she let all the heartache out.

 

---

 

She fell asleep, at some point.

 

---

 

Her alarm woke her a little before the four hour mark, enough time to go to the bathroom. Splashing cool water on her face helped wash the last of the sleep away.

With eyes closed, she reached her hands as high towards the ceiling as they would go, folding down to stretch her back, her hamstrings, loosen her hips, before slowly rolling back up, vertebra by vertebra, for another full body stretch, opening out all the tautness, loosening the strain.

When she was done, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were a little red-rimmed, and she still looked a little tired, but — Yor shook out her arms, her wrists, her hands, rolled her shoulders and bounced once on her toes, to see. Yes! Oh, she felt so much better. The sleep had helped. And so had her cry. She ought to have realised then that it would. Nothing good ever came from keeping her feelings tied up inside.

Leaving the bathroom to join Anya and Loid, even the grey, grey, grey of the safehouse walls didn’t seem quite so bad.

It was easy, to smile brightly at Anya, to return Loid’s nod. Easy, joining them again.

 

---

 

It turned out Loid lost at the card game, too. Anya was still pleased about this, hours after it happened. 

“Anya didn't even cheat,” she told Yor proudly. “Didn't read Papa's mind at all!”

“Oh!” Yor said, startled. Was this what it was like, to have no secrets? They could just… Openly, easily, speak about things? Was that — was that o… okay?

Anya was watching her expectantly, energised on the balls of her feet: Yor jolted. She clapped her hands to her thighs, bending so she was at Anya's eye level. “Well done, Anya!”

 

---

 

Yor got herself a cup of tea (finally) as Loid set Anya on a scavenger hunt he'd set up around the safehouse. “I'm not sure how many of the hiding spots she's already picked up from my thoughts,” Loid said absently, joining Yor at the table, and Yor searched his voice, his face, for any kind of feeling around the idea that Anya read his thoughts. But he seemed… untroubled…? Yor could hardly wrap her mind around the idea that Anya could hear what she was thinking at all, and Loid seemed to have accepted it? It made her dizzy. She lifted her mug and breathed the tea steam in.

Loid went on, “But hopefully it will occupy her long enough for us to make a plan.”

“M-mm,” Yor agreed.

It did. They divided responsibilities and formulated a loose schedule as Anya puzzled things through.

Loid would handle meals.

Yor would handle post-meal clean-up.

If they were… here… long enough, then they'd share the house-wide cleaning. For now, it was a case of doing their best to tidy and clean as they went.

Yor would look after Anya after breakfast until lunch when Loid rested — or, as Yor suspected, didn't rest, but did whatever it was he did in privacy. Paperwork, maybe?

After lunch, it was her turn for a few hours rest until dinner, while Loid looked after Anya.

They'd have dinner together. Spend the couple of hours before Anya's bedtime together. “Like at home,” Loid had said, at the same time Yor had said quietly, “Like normal.”

There was a short pause, but Yor didn't say anything else and neither did Loid.

Once Anya was in bed, they'd split the time before she woke, one to keep watch as the other slept. 

“And we said we'd have a, a longer talk with Anya,” Yor said once they'd agreed. “About what happened. How things have… changed.” Yor met Loid's eyes across the table, and they held. “And what we're doing here.”

Loid's expression flattened, his fingers tapped on the table. “Agreed,” he said. Then added dryly, “Though I suspect she may know more than we do at this point.”

Yor laughed. It wasn't really very funny, but it was better to laugh than to sob. But she sort of regretted it, catching something she didn't quite understand on Loid's face as he watched her smile.

 

---

 

She shouldn't have laughed. Loid had been right; though it seemed even he was taken aback by just how much Anya knew.

Yor kept thinking about the moment Anya had said, “When will Papa tell Mama about Operat–”

And Loid had sucked in a sharp breath.

And Anya had stopped.

Then started again, “When will Papa tell Mama about his mishun?”

And Loid had been silent for a long time, before he said soberly, noncommittally, “As soon as possible.”

Which was vague but he must have been telling the truth, because Anya looked satisfied. 

Then she turned to Yor and asked, “When will Mama teach Anya how to use her stabby thingies?”

And Yor’s soul nearly left her body.

 

---

 

After dinner, they played Anya's card game again.

According to Loid, he nearly beat Anya. Anya turned a very deep red insisting it hadn't even been close. Yor couldn't weigh in; she still wasn't entirely sure how any of the Jacks could be beaten by a Six of Clubs (?) but not by a Six of Diamonds (??) and she didn’t understand what it meant that the Queen of Spades held court (?) though she did understand the Queen of Spades beat everything, just not why (???)

 

---

 

After Anya was asleep and Loid had wished her good-night, the bedroom door closing silently behind him, Yor remembered she'd forgotten to give him his novel.

And had forgotten to take one of her own.

Reasoning it was just a novel and would hardly be the biggest transgression between them, Yor settled in to read. It had a simple cover, the title in big block text: The Left Hand of Darkness. A strange sort-of castle with a lovely watercolour spread of blue, like snow or ice, and two small figures trekking towards the castle.

It turned out the castle and the ice and the people were from another planet. And there were no women on that planet, except also there was only one gender, really, sort of, which bothered the main character but Yor sort of liked what the other character had to say about it. And there were a lot of politics. Negotiations and tensions and the threat of conflict. The main character was under a lot of pressure.

She'd heard of science fiction but hadn't ever read any before. She never knew it was like this. And had made hardly a dent when Loid emerged hours later. 

“You, um… You read this book for, for leisure?” she asked weakly, looking up at him from her spot on the couch.

She must really have needed more sleep, because she the look Loid gave her seemed soft. He held out his hand for the novel and when Yor passed it to him, he turned it over, studying the cover. “She has a dense writing style,” he admitted, inclining his head to Yor. “But I appreciate her vision.”

Yor tipped her head to one side. “What's her vision?”

Loid held her gaze, then his eyes slid to the novel once more. “That people are complicated,” he said quietly, slowly. “And various. And not always good in the ways we'd hope. And frequently they struggle, and sometimes they fail. Often because… the systems are hard, and mean. But…” he drew a muted breath, “That when people try, it's worth it. It means something, that they try. That they try to be good to one another. Even, or maybe particularly, across what seem to be insurmountable divides or differences.”

“Oh,” Yor whispered, her heart squeezing, thudding, making itself known in her chest. “That sounds nice.”

“It is.”

Loid was standing, looking down at her. The light was generous with him: teased the gold glint in his fringe, soft-lit his eyes, and gentled the tense slope of his shoulders. She had always thought his eyes were as kind as they were clever. That his smile, this smile, the one where his lips stayed pressed together like he was keeping something to himself but sharing just a little, was sweet. And the way he carried himself… well, she hadn’t actually ever thought specifically about the way he carried himself. Just had a general sense that there was something familiar, something calming, about it. About him. She supposed she better understood that now. In a, in a way. 

If they were at home…

Well, no. If they were at home, they’d never have found one another in the living room at this hour. But… but imagining for a moment that they had… it wouldn’t be like this. Yor would have tea and Loid, she knew this one of his secrets and had done for months, Loid sometimes had hot chocolate. He’d have one now. He’d join her on the couch. And they’d talk.

She missed that suddenly, sharply, in such a way that it took all her control not to move, not to gasp. It hadn't happened often, but it had happened sometimes, after Anya was asleep, and Yor loved it every time. She wanted to ask him questions — not, not about the last two days. God, she wished she didn’t have any more questions about the last two days. No, if they were at home, he would sit beside her on their comfy couch, in the cosy warm light of their living room, and Yor would ask him more questions about his novel. And he would give her more answers. And then they’d talk about other things, just as they came up. And it would be lovely. And comfortable. And home. 

Yor bit her lip, and Loid’s eyes dropped to her mouth and her stomach swooped in the strangest way, the most pleasing way — His eyes rose back to meet hers and Yor — oh, god, but Yor dearly wanted him to sit. She dearly wanted to stay. She dearly wanted to speak about his incomprehensible novel with its beautiful vision, and she would curl up on the couch, resting her elbow on its back, and she would listen to him speak and he would listen to her, one knee folded on the couch cushion so he was facing her, and it would be normal again, and it would be fine again, and he would keep looking at her, just like this, just in this way she had seen on him a handful of times before, that she couldn’t explain but which warmed her in this specific way she couldn’t name —

And it was odd, that she was remembering the feel of his hands flat across her back, nice and reassuring, when they hugged in the bathroom —

God, why wouldn’t he sit down beside her? Why wouldn’t he take this moment to be normal again?

Yor drew a breath through her lips — Loid took half a step forward —

He straightened suddenly, rolled his shoulders. Cleared his throat and, “Thank you, for bringing this for me,” he said.

His expression cleared into a very slight, very mild, smile. And Yor… Yor released her breath. And… let her wants go. Pulled herself together.

“I'm sorry I forgot to tell you earlier,” she said drawing herself to her feet, sliding out of range of him.

Loid inclined his head in acceptance of her apology. “Sleep well, Yor.”

“Mhm!” She clasped her hands behind her back. "Enjoy… your, um, your morning…”

“Thank you.”

They watched one another for another suspended moment, the space between them the normal amount, and also — also wrong — before Yor turned smartly on her toes and didn't quite dash to the bedroom.

Notes:

I just want to say thank you so, so much again for the lovely comments so far! I’m answering as quickly as I can, and I really can't tell you how much they make my day and also make all the difference when I'm wrestling with the writing 💙 everyone who comments/kudos/subscribes, I appreciate it so much, you're the best 🥰

Speaking of the best, my betas! My superlative thanks to Countrymint and Cantare! I appreciate the brainstorming for various safehouse activities and a few good chuckles therein, Cantare, thank you ♥! And Countrymint, thank you for reading through more than one iteration and for discussing with me various things, pointing out some missing bits, as I battled with this chapter. Chimera is here thanks to you ♥!

RIP Twilight, you'd have loved Ursula K le Guin. (Left Hand of Darkness wouldn't have been published yet, but if Endo said he pulls anachronistic technologies in when he wants/needs then I can pull anachronistic, probably smuggled, books XD)

Thank you for reading 🫶 I'd love to hear from you!

Chapter 6

Summary:

Yor was still facing Loid's side of the bed. The longer she looked, the emptier it seemed.

Notes:

Mmmkay so this chapter ended up being best split as well! But we'll be keeping a pacey update schedule for the next three chapters, so at least there's that!

Whatever confusing tension had been between them the night before, it had passed by morning. Which was a relief, Yor told herself. Convinced herself. 

Breakfast was uneventful, and after Yor had done the dishes, after Loid disappeared into the bedroom, Yor chased Anya and Bond around the living room, then Anya chased Bond and Yor, then Bond chased Yor and Anya. Anya did at one point suggest they go outside, claiming she had read Bond's mind and he was desperate to go. Yor tried to teach Anya yoga after that, though that turned into Anya napping. After she'd woken up, Anya tried again to teach Yor her card game but Yor was beginning to suspect that it wasn't that Yor couldn't keep the rules straight in her head, but rather that the rules kept changing —

As soon as she had the thought, Anya insisted that that wasn't true, and Yor was forcibly reminded her thoughts were no longer entirely private, that Anya could read her mind.

Focussing on what Anya could do, Yor asked “Do you — do you choose when to do it, Anya?” shortly before Loid was due to come and make lunch.

Anya blinked wide eyes at her. “Not really,” she said earnestly. “Sometimes it's always —” Yor winced. What would it be like, always having someone else's thoughts — “Sometimes it's just random. Like Anya can't hear Mama's thoughts now anymore.” Thank goodness. “And when there's no moon, Anya encrypts.”

Yor tilted her head. “Encrypts?”

Anya nodded seriously. “When the sun is in front of the moon and the moon can't see.”

“Eclipse,” Loid corrected from the hall and Anya jumped so hard she startled Bond beside her. Yor looked up at him; he'd been there since Anya said she couldn't hear Yor's thoughts any longer. She hadn't thought Anya was lying, but that she had been startled by Loid did probably confirm she’d been telling the truth. He gave Yor a small nod, before looking their daughter again. “Why do you call it an eclipse, Anya?” he asked, coming to join them.

Anya fidgeted with her cards. Yor set down her own. Moved to sit beside Anya on the floor. She took Anya's hand. “It's okay, Anya,” Yor murmured. “We won't be angry.” When this didn't seem quite to reassure her, Yor bit her lip. Then tried, “Or… maybe… maybe we will get angry? Just not with you.”

After a short pause, Loid shifted his weight, and he said evenly, “Yor's right.”

Anya looked up at him. She took a big breath. Her tiny hand held on tight to Yor's. “The — the science bad guys. They said it was eclipse.” Anya shivered, shuffled closer to Yor. “They said Anya can't hear and.” Her voice went higher as she spoke, Yor wrapped an arm around her. “And Anya should — no one should bother with Anya. I should go away. When the moon goes away.”

If Yor weren't concentrating very hard on keeping her hold gentle around Anya, the table would be in splinters. How dare —

“Do you want to… go away… when you… eclipse?” Loid asked. He was speaking quietly, slowly, and Yor thought probably to anyone else he would sound calm, collected. But she heard the slight waver, the way that pause was angry. 

Anya shook her head. “Anya never wants to hide. Not since I was littler.”

Yor's heart twisted. With Anya's full body pressed right to her side, it was difficult to imagine her any more little.

Then Anya perked up against her. “Not since Anya became a Holger.”

Yor's heart stuck in her throat. She rubbed her hand up Anya's arm, pulling her closer. Her attention was on Anya but she could sense something happening to Loid. Without knowing exactly what, Yor knew this was true: “We never want you to hide from us, Anya,” she said softly, leaning to press a kiss to the crown of Anya's head.

“No, we don't,” Loid agreed. There was a breath of air and he was kneeling in front of them. His hand landed on Anya's head. Loid said quietly, “You never need to hide from us,” his voice sounded a little strained and Yor glanced up at him. His eyes were haunted, trained on Anya. His mouth was tight, pulled down unhappily. “I don't want you to ever feel you have to hide.” He breathed out. “But Anya… it is important that you don't tell anyone else, about what you can do.”

Anya blinked up at him with wide eyes. She didn't seem hurt or scared exactly, but… Yor sighed. “That's right, Anya,” she said gently. “You have to keep it secret.”

Shifting in Yor's hold, Anya looked up at Yor. “Anya… has to keep the secret forever?” her voice small, looking back and forth between Yor and Loid.

Before either of them could respond, Anya pulled away from Yor and got to her feet. “Anya wants to be alone.”

Yor made a soft sound of protest; Loid did the same. But Anya didn't turn around, didn't even pause, and neither of them stopped her. If she wanted to be alone…

Yor glanced at Bond and as though he had the same thought, Loid said, “Bond, stay with Anya.”

Bond offered a soft Borf, and trotted after her. Her bedroom door closed behind him.

The silence sat heavy. Yor couldn't take her eyes off Anya's door.

Loid shifted, then said lowly, “I don't like her door closed.”

“No,” Yor agreed, biting her lip. “But I think maybe she needs the privacy.”

“I know. But…”

Yor turned her head, met Loid's eyes. “I'll sit outside her door,” she said after a moment. “It doesn't lock. If something — if something happens, I'll be right there. And…” she hesitated. But routine was particularly important at the moment. Quietly, coaxingly, she said, “And that will give you the chance to make lunch.”

Loid held her gaze, long enough Yor started to wonder if she ought to have phrased it differently. But he only nodded. “You're right. Thank you.”

“I'll tell her I'm there,” Yor said, relieved, getting to her feet as Loid did the same. “Although if her, her…” powers? Abilities? What was the right word? “If she can hear thoughts again, she might know.”

“Right.” Loid stood for a moment, paused, half turned to the kitchen. She rolled up to the balls of her feet, wanting to move to Anya's door, but made herself wait as Loid slowly, “About that…”

“Hm?”

“Have you… are you trying to shield your thoughts?”

It felt like a tuning fork had just been struck in her mind. She'd never considered that! How would a person even —

She refocused on Loid. He had the same look on his face as when something was preoccupying him, when he was trying to work something through, at… at home.

“I… I haven't.” Should I admit…? She sighed, let her shoulder slump. “I hadn't thought of it.”

“I… have,” Loid said slowly. Off Yor's look, he added, “Been thinking about it, that is. Anya's already gleaned a lot about my work. She doesn't understand most of it as far as I can tell. But it's dangerous. And with her mention yesterday about your stilettos, I got to thinking about your work, too.”

Yor jolted at his casual reference to her weapons — it really was just, just okay? To, to talk about — ? — Nevermind that, Yor. 

She moaned a little. “I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“No,” Loid said quietly, distractedly. “It isn't a challenge with a clear solution.”

Yor gaped at him. “How are you so calm?” she whispered. Yor startled — “Have you met other people like —”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I…” He stopped. Studied her. Yor did her best to hold his gaze, resist shifting her weight or clutching her hands. Privately, to herself, she admitted she'd been trying not to think about Anya being a telepath. Anytime she did pressure built in her temples and her eyes went funny. What could it possibly be like, to have someone else's thoughts in your head? She could hardly keep her own straight half the time! And she didn't know how to act or what to do. And even setting all that aside, there were so many horrible people, so much scum, out in the world who might use, might hurt, Anya if they knew —

She was trying to just accept it because otherwise —

Oh. Maybe that's —

“I suppose,” Loid answered, frowning, voice hardly above a murmur, “I think there's not much else that can be done about it.” He crossed his arms over his chest, dropping his head slightly while still meeting her eyes. “Anya can do what she can do. And… we… just have to manage it.”

“That's it, isn't it…” Yor wrapped her arms around herself. “What else can we do?”

“Mm. What else…”

They both knew there were alternatives. There were endless alternatives. Those alternatives almost seemed to crop up between them, one after another, as though demanding to be taken seriously as a possibility.

Every one of them would involve hurting, betraying, or abandoning Anya.

Vile.

Which left accepting it. And… and, what had Loid said?

Managing it.

Managing it…?

Oh. I… I suppose…?

How would they go about doing that? It wasn't as though she or Loid had any knowledge of telepathy. Or any books to consult.

She wished suddenly that she could speak with Yuri. He was clever and creative and had read probably nearly as many books as Loid. But of course, it was impossible. She trusted Yuri; she didn't want to bring him into this, even if there were a chance he could help. And Loid would never, ever, ever agree to telling Yuri.

At least there was Loid, too. And he had said, We have to manage it. We.

Our daughter.

She tipped her head, studied his face. He looked tired again, his eyes were still a little haunted. But he also…

“Mm, Loid.” Yor breathed out, relief loosening a coil of anxiety in her chest. “You're sure you'll figure something out, aren't you?”

Loid's eyes widened in surprise. “I — Yes. I think so.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to thank him. On the tip of her tongue to say she was relieved she wasn't alone, that she could share this burden with him, relieved he was here, too.

She swallowed the words.

For a split second, it was as though the sentiment shot straight down to her hand, her fingers, her palm tingling with it. In her mind's eye, she imagined reaching for Loid's hand. Taking his hand. Holding his hand. For a split second, she thought she might —

“I thought so,” she said instead, stretching her fingers, opening her palm. She managed to offer him a smile, commiserative. Before he could react or respond, she looked away towards Anya's door. Yor whispered, “If, if I can help in any way…”

“I'll let you know,” Loid said softly. “And I'll let you know if I think of anything that we could try,” he added, “For shielding.”

Yor nodded. “Thank you… I'll, I'll let you know if anything happens,” she offered. Instantly felt silly, as though anything that might happen wouldn't be immediately obvious to someone with instincts as keen as theirs.

Regardless, Loid said, “Thank you, Yor. I'll call you both when lunch is ready.”

Yor nodded. As Loid went to the kitchen, Yor settled herself on the floor, her back against Anya's door. She gave a soft knock, and before she could say anything, Anya's muffled voice came, “Know you're there, Mama.” 

“Only if you need me,” Yor answered quietly, stretching her arm to the base of the door, resting her palm flat. Anya didn't reply. But she didn't need to really.

 

---

 

Yor hadn't thought to ask about the groceries Loid had brought, but she supposed it shouldn't have surprised her that he'd ensured ingredients for Hamburg Steak.

It successfully coaxed Anya from the room with an excited shout.

Anya was, mostly, cheerful again as they ate.

That didn't stop Yor trading looks with Loid throughout the meal.

 

---

 

As Yor was washing up, she overheard Loid telling Anya she could play most of the afternoon, but she had also missed two days of school so they would be doing an hour of homework. He then started correcting Anya's description of an eclipse — Yor had wondered, when he hadn't done that earlier —

If Anya hadn't been entirely herself before, the loud groan she offered seemed to push her the rest of the way there.

 

---

 

Even so, as she slipped into the bedroom for her afternoon rest, Yor shared a long look with Loid over Anya's head bent to her work.

 

---

 

It had been a little harder to fall asleep for her nap, but it would still be a few days before she felt completely herself, energy-wise. When her alarm sounded, Yor turned it off without looking. She'd set it early so she would have a few minutes to gather herself before joining Anya and Loid for dinner. Her plan was to get up, meditate to ground herself.

Their conversation with Anya had left her shaken. And Loid's comments about shielding thoughts… It… the need to do so was very uncomfortable to think about. And something about Loid saying they'd need to manage it… Didn't feel quite right…

Squeezing the pillow in her arms closer into her chest, Yor took a slow, deep breath.

Hm? There was something familiar —

She rolled her face more fully into the pillow, snuggled —

On her next breath, her nose filled with the scent again —

Lavender, vanilla.

That was strange. The lavender and vanilla was like the gift she had given Loid, the one she'd been wrong about. And something under it, something that was somehow exactly like Loid —

“Oh… Oh, oops…” She must have taken his pillow at some point in her sleep. That also explained how her neck and shoulder were still supported. But… did that mean he'd used her gift? Sleep still clinging to the edges of her mind, to the weight of her eyelids, Yor nuzzled into the pillow and inhaled deeply.

Lavender

Vanilla

And Loid. — or, or rather that citrusy musk Yor associated with Loid.

He had used it — !

A curl of joy tightened her stomach, the pillow case brushing her smile. She’d thought she’d got it wrong, with that gift. She’d meant for it to be relaxing, soothing, to help him sleep. Loid had been gracious when she had given it, but Loid was always gracious, and she’d never seen any of the pretty little bottles again. Lavender had never scented the bathroom, the shared areas at home.

And yet here…

Yor turned her face, squeezed the pillow more tightly, curling around it, warmth filling her stomach.

Loid brought the gift here? Or part of it, at least, something — something that would cling to his skin, or his hair…

She released the pillow, looked at it curiously, before sliding it back to where it ought to have been had she not taken it in her sleep. Wasn't that nice?

But… Why did knowing that he’d brought it here make her feel… make her feel… lighter? And…

“Oh!” she gasped, “Oh no! Yor!”

Propelling herself back, out from under the blanket, out of the bed, she pressed her back against the wall, remembering all at once how Loid had so clearly taken pains to make obvious what side of the bed he was sleeping on. She had thought maybe it was for her benefit, to make… to make it less awkward for her to choose where to sleep? Something like that? He had always been very considerate, but how self-involved of her!

Everything had changed. There was perhaps one thing that hadn't. They both prized their privacy. Perhaps he’d made it obvious where he’d slept for privacy reasons! For her sake, but for himself, too! It was strange, and worse, strangely, um, intimate, to share a bed, even if they were both professionals from the underworld, even if they weren’t doing it at the same time. She didn't remember seeing any of the bottles in the bathroom, which meant he'd brought it secretly, to use in private — !

Oh no oh no oh no — ! Yor !

How would she feel if Loid went around sniffing her pillow?!

Mm.

Um.

Mm.

That… That didn't seem so terrible, actually. She frowned down at the floor, her toes pointing in towards one another. It should be strange, shouldn't it? After all, he wasn't who she thought he was, and everything had changed, and…

And yet the thought of Loid pressing his face into her pillow, his nose to her hair — she shivered a little, something tightened in her stomach and — and — that, that was —

That isn’t the point, Yor! The point is he likes his privacy as much as I like mine! And…

“And I should apologise,” she whispered, twisting her hands. But how – how could she explain…?

Yor stared at the bed. Traced her eyes over the mess of the blanket, the confusion of pillows. Her hair flew as she frantically shook her head. No no no no no. She couldn't possibly tell him.

And on the heels of that thought streamed through her mind all the other things they hadn't told one another. The things she still didn't know. He isn't who I thought. I can't forget that! Though there was a small part of her beginning to wonder whether the man he was turning out to be, whether he might be, might be —

But. No. And there were so many things she still hadn't told him.

I'm… I'm not who he thought either…

There were things… that she… That she had wanted to share with him since… Hmm… since the beginning? Since that night, when I asked him to extend our arrangement? To actually marry me? I've always thought he would understand, and…

Because, he had said, I want you to know.

She buried her face in her hands, her hair slipping down her shoulders.

Goddamnit…

What would she even say? By the way Loid, I became an assassin to support my brother because things got quite desperate for a moment there, and then I kept doing it because I was good at it and I could make the world a little bit better, protect Yuri and other people's precious, beautiful, normal lives, by cleaning the world of scum. Also, I smelled your pillow and I'm so, so, so sorry for invading your privacy!

No, she absolutely could not tell him about this. All she could do is put the bed back to rights. And hope he wouldn't notice.

What was one… more… secret… between them…

 

---

 

The evening passed without incident. If Yor was a little quiet, a little restless, neither Loid nor Anya asked her about it — thank goodness.

 

---

 

Still, after Anya had bathed and changed into her pyjamas, Yor drew her over, sat her down on the floor between her knees, and brushed her damp hair. Fshhh-ing, Anya called it, and used to ask Yor to do it at least once a week, though she hadn't asked recently. Yor watched Anya relax, her head bowing, little shoulders lowering, her hands loosening where she'd curled them in her lap.

I'll never let anyone hurt you again, Yor thought fiercely, drawing the brush down carefully, gently. Anya stirred, and Yor wondered whether she'd heard Yor's thoughts.

Oh well, and what if she did? Yor toed her feet closer to Anya's crossed legs, tenderly squeezing her calves against Anya's sides when Anya nestled back.

She felt Loid's eyes on them all the while. Yor didn't comment and didn't look at him.

After that, Anya went to bed easily, sleepily, without protest.

 

---

 

Loid had gotten up just before they were to trade off, Yor to rest and Loid to keep watch. He had gone to the bathroom, and was bidding her good-night exactly as the clocks turned from the last of his nightly rest hours to the first of hers.

Yor walked to the far side of the bed, the side that was ‘hers,’ the side that wasn't ‘his,’ and sat on the edge of the mattress.

She didn’t like keeping secrets. And the lies she told bothered her. They had done for months and months. They had from the start, really, but that had mostly been because Yor simply did not like lying, and she knew, she knew she wasn't very good at it. Prior to meeting Loid and Anya, she hadn't made connections with other people so she could keep her secret, and avoid the need to lie. That Loid and Anya welcomed her into their home so readily, Yor had felt a little guilty about using them for cover. It had been a little easier thinking that Loid was lying too; like it was really half a lie, since it was both of them doing it. Of course, until three days ago, she hadn’t thought he was lying about anything other than the circumstances of their marriage…

But the lies started to bother her more after she'd met Melinda. Loid had told her she deserved to have friends. That idea, that word, had… stayed with her. She remembered so clearly, sitting with her knees drawn up that same evening, thinking about Melinda, and the other nice women she had met from the Ladies Patriot Society, and about his suggestion that they could become her friends.

Her first friends.

It took her days to understand why something felt… not wrong, because actually that prospect of friends and friendship felt delicate and precious and she wanted it very, very much, though she didn't really know how to go about doing it. But there had been something else bothering her — something about how Loid had framed it, or how she had heard it, or…?

She realised the problem one night. It had been a night like any other when Loid was home. They'd had dinner. Loid had put Anya to bed. And then they ended up in the kitchen together. Yor washed the dishes. Sometimes Loid dried them, put them away. Or he arranged delicious leftovers for their lunches the next day. She couldn't remember which it was on that particular night, but the point was that while they did those nightly chores, they would chat.

That particular evening, Yor couldn't remember what they’d been talking about. It probably didn't matter. What mattered was that Loid said something, something that made her laugh. And then Yor said something, something which made him chuckle. And then all at once, she knew what had been bothering her.

She already had a friend. She already had her first friend.

Her first friend was Loid.

She hadn't before that moment thought of him that way. In her mind, he was her husband — of convenience, but still: To the world and in Yor's mind for practical purposes, Loid was her husband and she was his wife, and what that meant exactly was a little elusive and a little odd, but slowly, slowly, slowly, she had been getting the feel for it.

But friend — friend. She had been getting the feel for being a wife and for having a husband, because Loid had become her friend.

Yor pressed her toe into the cold floor, doodled absently with one finger on the blanket. Bowed her head, and stared at nothing.

Before all this — and like she'd wanted last night — she liked spending time with Loid, speaking with him. She appreciated hearing his thoughts and she felt mostly comfortable sharing her own. Coming home from work, she wanted to tell him about her day and wanted to hear about his. She wanted to tell him about Anya, and Bond. If she was the one late home, she wanted him to tell her about Anya, and Bond, too.

A month or two ago, after Melinda's charity volleyball game, when Yor had been thinking, thinking, thinking, she finally confessed nervously to him that she thought she wanted to do some kind of event to bring their neighbours together. Because, she had told him, she'd liked the feeling of, of community at the volleyball game, and also had spoken with several people who said they hadn't felt it for a long time, that they had missed the feeling… But, she had said as Loid listened seriously, I'm not sure how, or-or what I could do. Even if I can do anything. What… what do you think? He hadn't laughed. He hadn't dismissed her. He hadn't doubted her at all. He'd said, Of course you can. We'll have to figure out how.

He'd sat down with her, night after night (when he was home; when she was home) for two weeks, thinking out what she might do and how. (With a jolt, she realised she hadn't thought about her event at all since this began. If they were here long, what would happen…? Would it be cancelled? It wasn't — wasn't important, of course, given Anya, but… but it had been important, before, and her stomach dropped, guilt heated her cheeks, disappointment prickled her eyes. Never mind, Yor… think about it in the morning… ) He'd been patient and let her think and let her worry and let her explain her ideas. He'd listened and he'd made suggestions and he'd asked questions and he'd encouraged her, when she doubted herself. The event was coming up, and Loid hadn't helped directly, but he knew nearly as much about it as Yor, because he'd asked for updates, and listened, seemed interested, and remembered, when Yor told him.

And she tried her best to be there for him. Like when Loid had seemed preoccupied for a few days, in late winter, was it? Yor had asked him if something was bothering him. After a pause, he told her he was having trouble with a colleague who had feelings for him but wasn't accepting his more subtle attempts at rejection. She'd helped him come up with a plan. (That had also been the first time she played his wife at his place of work (or… at… the hospital where she'd thought was his place of work…? Was it actually…? Perhaps Wise was part of the hospital? Doctors must have a particular interest in preventing war, after all…?) It had been a little nerve wracking. But they had gone for cake, after. That had been lovely.)

That was it, really, wasn't it? She liked the time they spent together, even when it was stressful. She cared about his well-being and he seemed to care about hers.

And before all this, she had continued to feel that if he somehow learned the truth about her, that Loid would accept her, stand by her. It was a feeling she couldn't explain. She had secretly hoped, and secretly wanted, but…

He'd so casually mentioned her stilettos earlier, and said he didn't believe she would hurt him even after — 

Her heart took up a pounding tattoo against her ribs, her palms sweaty and her fingers cold, her breathing too rapid — 

Why is it scaring me, that I was, that I might be right?!

Yor closed her eyes. Linked her ankles. Put her hands over her heart. There's nothing to think about now, Yor. Just breathe.

In… two… three… four… 

Hold… two… three… four… 

Out… two… three… four… 

Hold… two… three… four… 

In… two…

She cycled it through, time after time after time, until her heart had calmed, her breathing easy, her hands no longer cold. “Those thoughts aren't for here,” she whispered. She released her hands, wiggled a little back onto the mattress, balancing again with a toe touching the floor.

What had she been thinking about, before? Right. That Yor enjoyed Loid’s company, and it seemed he enjoyed hers, too. She had determined, that night months ago when she'd realised he was her first friend, to be a better friend. She may not have been able to tell the whole truth of who she was and what she did, but besides that, she would do her best to not only be a good fake wife and mother, but to also do her best to be a good true friend.

She didn't feel like she was being a very good true friend now.

Twisting, turning her head to look over her shoulder, her eyes slid to Loid's side of the bed. He wasn't there, obviously. He would never be there at the same time she was.

But, like last night when she wanted him to sit beside her on the couch, she found herself wishing that he would be…

After a breath, Yor shifted. Lying down, she slipped under the covers. Rolled onto her side, folding her arm under her head and looking towards his pillow.

What if he were there?

She might whisper to him in the night what she was thinking, what she wanted to say, to promise, to explain. In her mind's eye, across the skin of her palm resting now on the middle of the bed, on the invisible line she'd imagined yesterday drawn down between 'her' side and 'his,' she wondered what it might be like, to pass her hand over, across that line, and find his under the blanket. To take his hand, hold his hand, as they spoke. Which was silly — she'd had that urge earlier too, but it was impossible. They didn't touch. Not like that. Even in her imaginings, she didn't know what that might feel like. She'd mostly only ever held small hands — Anya's, Yuri's when he was young. Once or twice, in her work, she had crushed someone's hand, but just to hold? And Loid's hands — he had such long fingers, a broad palm, strong, and deft, and clever. She remembered how quickly his hands worked picking the locks and building his improvised explosives. How steadily he held his guns. How gentle his touch was on Anya's head. How far his hands reached across her own back, his palms pressed flat. She pressed her hand into the mattress, dragged her fingers over the bed sheet. Her hands were strong, too. She could be gentle, too. How would their hands fit together?

Yor pulled her hand back from that invisible line. Brought it up to her chest, curling her fingers into a loose fist. It wasn't worth thinking about. She wasn't… That wasn't — Yor didn't get to have touch like that. And, and Loid wouldn't want it in any case… Not from… Not from Yor…

The, the important thing was, if Loid were here, they would talk. Sort of like they always had, but different. Different because of the dark and the close and the quiet. And different because now he knew parts of her secret. And now she knew parts of his. Together, they could figure out what came next for Anya, and what came next for them.

That was part of what hurt. She thought he was her friend. And… he told her things yesterday (? Or the day before…? Perhaps they should start a calendar, she was starting to lose track) He told her things that were important to him, and that felt like friendship. He had said he was telling her because he wanted to tell her. That he wanted her to know.

But… besides that… Loid wasn't acting like a friend… He wasn't giving her the chance to speak. Not really.

It was as though he had particular things to say, had specific questions to ask, and once he'd said the things he wanted, once he had the answers he needed… Yor drew a deep breath, trying to loosen the knot in her stomach, frowning at his pillow. The pillow that smelled like Loid, and smelled like the gift she had given him.

He wasn't acting like a friend.

Though she supposed… maybe… neither was she. 

She was still facing 'his' side of the bed. The longer she looked, the emptier it seemed.

The pillow he used had a little indent. Her fingers stretched towards that side, hands still clutched to her chest. Biting her lip, she imagined him there. If he were lying there, beside her, his head on that pillow, then he might turn his head to her. And if she were lucky, after they talked and talked and talked, and talked and talked, after they figured it out, after they solved everything, when she was so relieved and happy to have worked everything out with him, after all that, maybe he would feel better too, things might be more normal, he might give her that small smile, like last night, where his lips stayed pressed together, and that same look, like last night, with his eyes warm in a way that made her warm, that made her happy that he was happy —

Her stomach swooped, another curl of pleasure, and in a confused panic, Yor rolled away from his side of the bed towards the grey wall. It was still awful, that grey, but it did feel a bit less oppressive, for once, and more neutral. It took her a moment to catch her breath, calm her heart — 

She made herself stretch out her legs, and closed her eyes. It was a fantasy, that one conversation could solve everything. There was far, far too much for that.

But they did have to start somewhere. She would try tomorrow — or she supposed it was already tomorrow. She would try later today, then. To be a better friend. To have another conversation. A proper one.

Notes:

My many thanks to Countrymint for the close read of this! And for puzzling through a few particulars and the planting of seeds 🌱 Also for the extended discussion about a part of this chapter which has ended up, after all that, moved to the next 🥴🫶

 

Thank you so much for reading 💐 I'd love to hear from you ♥!

Chapter 7

Summary:

Yor hesitated, then straightened her shoulders. “Loid,” she called quietly. He stopped and turned to her.

Notes:

Thanks again, Countrymint, for reading this over and especially for hashing out the scene with the language back when this chapter was part of the last one 😆 ♥!

She was a little distracted all through breakfast, and just before Loid made as though to take himself to go rest, Yor stopped him. She had more questions, but — for now — Loid had told her his reasons for his work, and… Yor… in the spirit of being a better friend, she, she wanted to share, too.

“I was thinking,” she said slowly as Loid looked at her curiously, waited patiently. “That we should have another conversation. You and me. I mean. Maybe after Anya goes to sleep tonight? We have more to talk about, that is, you and I, b-besides Anya. And there are things that I…” 

That I want to tell you. Yor swallowed, gathered herself, drew a breath —

“For now, let's focus on Anya,” he said quietly, before she could finish.

“Oh,” Yor whispered, taking a step back. A sick feeling plunged down her throat to her stomach. She took another step back. Then another. “Of-of course.”

Yor had it all wrong.

She had thought she and Loid were friends.

She had thought… she had thought last night that she and Loid had something of their own. That the work Yor had done, to try to… to try to be useful and to try to be there and to know him… The ways he had been there for her, had listened to her, had shared with her… That they laughed together sometimes and that sometimes she could even manage to tease him… That she felt better, most of the time, for seeing him… That all those things had built a friendship. That the way time spent with Loid felt… companionable, almost. That he’d felt it, too. That they were companions, friends. Even considering everything, from the last few days.

But she'd been wrong. Of course she'd been wrong.

Something painful opened like a raw wound in her chest.

He hadn't ever thought of her that way. Of course he hadn’t. And he — he knew what friendship was. She was the one who it was new for.

Perhaps it was only Anya between them? Keeping them trying here?

If Anya wasn't here, would I still be here…?  

Would Loid? 

She didn't like imagining a world without Anya. It made her feel ill, and horrified, and somehow very, very angry. But for one moment, for the sake of one question, she imagined it.

And the horrible thing was… Yor knew she would still be here.

She would still try.

She would want to understand, to apologise for her part, to make things right.

But would there be anyone to try with?

Eyes stinging, she looked back up at Loid, to the deepening of that persistent wrinkle between his eyebrows and his tense jaw; the way his eyes focused on her, studied her. She had found it almost nice, before, the way he looked at her, but maybe — maybe she’d been wrong to —

“Yor,” Loid said, and for the first time that morning there was something else under his voice. Yor couldn't tell what it was. Didn't know what to think — “I'm —”

“No!” Stop stop! She couldn't bear an apology, waving her hands between them. “You're right! Anya is the most important! I had thought. But the only. Whatever is — that is, you, you and I — there obviously isn’t — it doesn't matter!”

“That isn't what I —”

But Yor shook her head quickly, swallowing around the sharp lump in her throat. “We'll focus on Anya, and. And that's it.” She forced herself to smile through the constriction in her chest. “Enjoy your rest, Loid!”

 

---

 

Rallying for Anya's sake had been easier than Yor feared. She simply avoided thinking about her conversation with Loid, and then she didn't feel lightheaded and her stomach stayed settled. By the time Loid emerged earlier than usual to start on lunch, she was fairly certain Anya didn't know anything was wrong. Or… more wrong.

Lunch was seared sausage and cheese omelette, roasted vegetables artfully arranged on the side, with some sort of savoury sauce poured almost decoratively over everything. Somehow Loid had also made Yor tea with steamed milk, and Anya a rather fancy hot chocolate with whipped cream. Yor looked at the spread, melancholy tugging at her eyes, weighing on her neck. She still only had the one recipe in her repertoire, but wasn’t this meal… complex? She looked at Loid as he laid everything out. The way his shoulders were tense, his back straight — he usually had impeccable posture but this was strained. His expression was a study in mildness but when Yor looked closer, she could see the skin around his eyes was taut. Either something had happened while he rested — could their earlier conversation be bothering him? — or…

She remembered him saying, Waiting idly isn't something I'm great at either.

That's right. More likely, being stuck in the safehouse was starting to get to him. She looked down at the lunch again, the intricate (to her eye) cut of the vegetables… One of the carrots (a vegetable present on her and Loid’s plates only) had been styled into a flower that seemed a little familiar though she couldn't place it. Looking back up at Loid, she traced the stiff line of his neck, the very slight down-tick in the corners of his mouth as he sat. Come to think of it, he'd never said if he'd spent time in a safehouse before…

But.

He'd been clear earlier. They weren't… they weren't to worry about one another. And Yor was still heartsore, for all spending the morning with Anya had been something of a balm for her. Forget it, Yor.

She looked away.

“Papa, what day is today?”

“Sunday,” Loid answered without pause. Yor blinked — was it already?

Anya took a big sip of her hot chocolate — Yor automatically reached out to wipe the whip from her upper lip. Anya asked, “Are we going to the nurshery today?”

Yor dropped her hand slowly, staring at Anya. Without checking, she knew Loid was doing the same.

“Anya…” Yor began.

Then Loid said, “We told you that we can't leave here, not for a few more days at least.”

Anya frowned. “But Mama said we'll go to the nurshery on Sunday. Today’s Sunday.”

“That was before… Before everything happened, darling,” Yor said gently. “Do you remember? We told you that Gard… um, the people I work for and the people your Papa works for are trying to make sure the bad scientists are all—caught. But until we know they are, we have to stay here. Where it’s safe.” She glanced at Loid who was frowning at Anya.

“Did you listen to us when we talked about being here…?”

Anya somehow managed to both roll her eyes and widen them innocently at him. “In Spy Wars, they catch the bad guys in 10 seconds flat.”

“Yes, well, Spy Wars is a cartoon,” Loid said dryly. “In real life, it takes longer to catch bad guys.” Yor tipped her head, considering, and Loid looked off to the side. Conceded, “Sometimes.”

“Depending on the bad guy,” Yor agreed. “Or how many. Their operation, location, resources. The parametres of the assignment… Ah. Um. Y-yes, it-it depends.”

Anya wasn't convinced. “But Bondman does it every time so Bondman is a better sp—”

Loid coughed. Anya stopped talking. Yor looked between them both, suddenly staring intently at one another.

“Um, Anya,” Yor intervened when Anya's stare started to be more of a scowl and Loid's expression was becoming increasingly impassive. “Why don't you and I start to plan our… the garden,” Yor faltered a little.

They'd been planning to go to the nursery to see about chamomile namely, and a few other things which could flourish in containers on a balcony. On Yor's suggestion, they had decided to start a little garden project for home, something to do as a family. But now…

Anya turned her attention fully on Yor, her eyes starting to light at the possibility. “We-we can do a little now while we eat,” Yor went on, pulling herself upright from where she had started to hunch in on herself. “Then while I wash the dishes, you can start doing some drawings. It isn't the same as going to the nursery, of course,” Yor managed a smile, “But if we plan now, we’ll be more organised when we do go…”

That's right, isn't it… Preparation wasn't always something she was very good at. It… had been difficult for her, even in training. The Shopkeeper had often reminded her to take a breath, to assess, to think things through, to make a plan if she had the time and the resources.

And failing that, insisted her skills be so expertly refined that she’d be protected, that a lack of preparation wouldn’t lead her to harm.

She had improved over time; she was never wrong footed in fights, not ever. But sometimes in moments where she was caught off-guard, particularly when she was frightened or thought she had done something wrong, something inside her propelled her forward, propelled her into action, like an urgent voice, bellowing straight from her heart, Fast fast! Now! Go! Before you lose everything! Act! Act!Act!GO!GO!GO!

But… That was the thing about gardens, and growing things, wasn't it… Sometimes quick action was needed, but she had learned as a child kneeling at her mother’s side in the soil, that far more often than not, it was patience, and preparation, and careful, thoughtful tending and attention.

She had had her realisations last night, and she had made her decisions, eased into them. But she hadn't actually thought out how best to… How best to… Approach? Loid? As a friend? Their friendship had grown slowly, after all…

So was she really going to be put off so easily? After one deflection? No. And I know better than that… She'd frequently needed to wrestle a bit with Loid (metaphorically!) and this was no different. She saw him as a friend, or at least, she had before and wanted to see if, maybe, somehow, they still could be… Because… Because that friendship was important to her. And that was reason enough to try.

… Right?

Yes, Yor.

Yor tightened her hand to a fist under the table and pumped it once for emphasis, before smiling more sincerely at Anya, “When I go rest, you and your Papa can continue. We can talk about it more at dinner. How does that sound?”

Anya's face shone as she nodded enthusiastically. “We can have a coconut tree!”

“Oh! Um,” Yor said. “Um. Well. Well! We, we can certainly see about that!” There wasn't that much space on the balcony and Yor was fairly sure a coconut tree would need… Hm, many things they couldn't provide in Berlint, certainly not on a balcony. Although perhaps she should make plans to take Anya to the botanical garden. They'd had a dedicated atrium with a few tropical plants, and she and Loid had enjoyed —

Yor cleared her throat, refocused on Anya. “The nursery will be able to tell us for sure.” Yor gave Anya a firm nod. “Until then, let's say yes!”

She glanced at Loid, feeling his gaze on her. She wasn't sure what to make of his expression. Disapproving? No… But something about it tugged at her heart and she —

She looked away, set her jaw. “What other plants can we think of?” she asked Anya.

To her surprise, Loid spoke up, “Didn't you bring Anya's plant encyclopaedia from home, Yor?” She looked at him again, but he was looking at Anya. Truthfully Yor had grabbed a few of those books at random, and couldn't remember which ones. But if Loid said the plant guide was one of them, he was probably right. He added encouragingly, “Why don't you get that from your room, Anya? We can look through it now while we eat, and then you and I can go into more detail, after you and your Mama start the plan.”

 

---

 

After they’d eaten and once Loid had taken over watching Anya, Yor went to the bedroom. She didn't look at the bed. She didn't sleep.

She did callisthenics. And she thought.

She folded paper plants and paper pots, because the idea of drawings had turned into paper cut-outs and paper constructions of plants instead, with Anya saying she and Loid would make a fake version of their balcony at home. While Yor did that, she thought.

She re-folded the ones she accidentally crushed or tore while thinking. And she thought some more.

When her alarm sounded, she went to the bathroom.

She showered.

And she thought.

 

---

 

As Loid made dinner, Yor oooh-ed and aaaah-ed as Anya showed her the little version of the exterior of their apartment that Anya had made with Loid. “It's very impressive, Anya!” and it was. There was a startling amount of detail to the railings and the windows (“Papa drew those,” Anya told her) and the balcony shape was a bit shaky but easily recognisable as home and well constructed (“Anya was in charge of the balcony floor,” Anya said proudly.) There were also little markers on the balcony where pots could be placed, more sketches of plants, a few already cut-out (“Anya needed a change of pace,” Anya declared when Yor picked up one that was only half cut-out. “I played fetch with Bond for a while.”)

Yor produced the little pots and plants she had made, spilling them onto the coffee table beside the balcony model. “Ta-da!” 

As Anya picked through them, Yor glanced at Loid in the kitchen. His back was to them, the kitchen open to the living room, the counters and oven against the wall. She had most of the words she wanted to say, sort of, mostly, but whether he would —

“Papa made Mama mad…” Anya said in a quiet voice, interrupting her thoughts.

“Oh!” Yor turned her attention back to Anya who was staring at her with a sombre frown. So sweet… But serious. “No.” Yor shook her head. “Not exactly. It's more that —” She bit her lip. “I… I just have to speak with your Papa, that's all. It's nothing for you to worry about though, darling.”

It was convincing him to talk that was the problem.

Anya's expression changed. And it struck Yor — she had seen that look before. Before Anya said things that were, were, were perceptive. Like yesterday, just before Anya said she wasn’t changing the rules in response to something Yor had thought…

But before Yor could quite put a name to her increasing intuition, Anya said quietly, maybe with a little annoyance, “For Papa, it's always work first. He's stubborn.”

Work first, huh… Yor hesitated. Then she leaned in close to Anya. She whispered conspiratorially, “And I am persistent,” setting her fingers to tickle Anya's sides.

Giggling, Anya squirmed away, and hollered, “Anya, too!”

Yor looked at her daughter, at her bright, determined face. “Yes, you are!” 

Anya said something in another language — Yor tilted her head. “From the classical language Anya knows,” Anya told her. “At school they said the stinking rich families back in history used to have tomatoes for war in that language.” Yor blinked. Tomatoes for war? Visions filled her mind of tomatoes vining up halberds and spears. She supposed it might be an efficient way to bring food, and have a snack…? Although, how long would tomatoes last without soil, or would the halberds and spears be stuck in big containers of soil between battles? Wouldn't that add significant weight for transport? And could they spare the water? She frowned, it seemed like more trouble than it was worth, ultimately. Then Anya said awkwardly, “Words that are the family words?”

Oooh. “A motto?” Yor suggested.

Anya nodded. “Anya's motto was Conquer! But now it's Conquer the stubborn. Anya can share,” she said, crossing her arms and nodding as though she were a ruler, granting some grand gift. Yor covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “Conquer the stubborn can be the Holger family motto.”

“Oh, Anya,” Yor said, rocking forward, collecting Anya into a hug. “I love that.” She released her. Then tipped her head and put her hand to her chin thoughtfully. “But maybe we can think of another word instead of conquer…?”

 

---

 

Persistent together for victory.

That was what they had agreed on. 

Yor preferred the word accomplishment, or achievement, but Anya had said those were too big, and that they had already used a big word with persistent. Victory was something they could both accept. Anya had tried to teach Yor the words in the classical language but Yor's mouth and tongue couldn't form the sounds properly. She did appreciate the way Anya was determined to teach her — and did her best not to laugh when Yor kept mangling the words.

Until Yor started being silly about it on purpose and they'd ended up giggling together right up until Loid called them to dinner with a curious tone to his voice. 

Sharing a look with Anya, it was like their own little conspiracy. Yor wasn't sure if Anya read her mind or if they were able to agree without words, but either way, they didn't let Loid in on their new family motto. Not yet.

That had been hours ago, and Anya was long asleep. Yor had been on watch, alone again with her thoughts and the little paper pots and plants and model of the exterior of their home. She had tidied everything before Loid was due to trade off with her, because she knew he liked things neat, and really, so did she.

The bedroom door opened on quiet hinges. Loid's soft steps to the bathroom; the bathroom door closing.

She got to her feet, stood, waiting for him. Her heart was in her throat. It was difficult to draw a full breath. The room was small, the grey all around her and so close. Would this be easier, if we were at home?

Maybe.

Probably not.

She heard the door to the bathroom open. Her heart pounded. He stepped from the darkness of the hall into the faint light from the side table lamp. He looked at her curiously, she thought, her breath cycling too quickly. But also there was something strained, something guarded.

“Good night, Yor,” Loid said quietly, a question in his voice, making as though to pass her into the living room.

Yor hesitated, then straightened her shoulders. “Loid,” she called quietly. He stopped and turned to her.

Yor tightened her hands by her sides. She had the words. Mostly. Almost. She just had to say them.

“I. I wanted to ask…” His eyebrow twitched. Yor swallowed. “Why won’t you talk about, about…” She breathed out shakily. “Why don’t you ask — let me tell you my fe— my thoughts? Why won’t you let me talk about…”

Me. My work.

Before he could answer, she shook her head. “I know things have changed between us, and everything is… strange and confusing. And stressful. And uncomfortable. Especially here in this place that isn't. Isn't home. But I thought…” Yor sucked in a breath. “You, you trusted me. Anya said — and you told me. Things. And. I… thought we were friends. Th-that we had been friends. B-before this.” Just barely a whisper. She could hardly breathe. But she was still speaking, at least. “Even with… even with our secrets, and our lies.” Her voice wavered again. She swallowed. Tried again. “And it's difficult, I, I know it's difficult. But I don't understand why you don't seem to — any more — why you. I want to, to tell you — Aren't we, weren't we —” She clutched her hands to her chest, “Aren't we friends, Loid?”

The blood drained from his face.

She couldn’t catch her breath.

Something crossed his expression, moved through his whole body. Inexplicably, Yor thought of what he'd said in the bathroom the night they brought Anya back: How did I not know? What did I miss?

He looked devastated.

“Yor,” he murmured. Something about the way he said her name made her ache, made her want, terribly. She swayed, took a half step towards him without meaning to, and only when she heard her boot scuff the tile did she pull to a stop.

Because he… he didn't say anything else.

Her name. In that voice. And then. Nothing.

For ages and ages —

He didn't say a word.

There wasn't a ticking clock in the safehouse but it felt like there was. It was like each second ticked past in her ears as the silence between them stood stark, and nothing else filled it.

Least of all Loid's voice.

Yor watched Loid. Loid stared at Yor. Once or twice he seemed as though he might speak, answer her, his throat bobbing or his mouth tensing.

But then he said nothing, nothing at all.

Still… Yor waited another beat. Waited as Loid drew a breath — and released it, without saying a word. Waited as her heart ached and her throat burned. Waited because there was still devastation all around him, even though he had cleared it from his expression. Waited because to do otherwise would… would be… would be too…

Because, because she had to wait.

But he wasn't talking. He wasn't answering her.

His eyes were embattled. His hands were tight, then flexing loose, then tight again, at his sides.

He wouldn’t, she realised, her hands starting to hurt from where she still clutched them tight. He wouldn't answer her.

“I see,” she whispered.

Yor dropped her eyes.

Dropped her head.

Murmured, “Good night, Loid,” and turned, darting to the bedroom on silent feet.

 

---

 

Closing the door, Yor pinned her hands behind her, leaning back against the door. The wood was hard against the crown of her head as she looked up, up at the ceiling, and tried to coax the ache in her heart to ease, to open her chest, catch her breath, stop gasping.

Breathe, Yor. Breathe…

She didn't have a head for tactics but she did know the phrase, Lose the battle to win the war. Yuri had been obsessed with it for a while when he was thirteen. He couldn't understand how losing might lead to winning, and so they'd ended up discussing it a fair bit.

Yor hadn't ever really thought of it again, since then, though. It was kind of reassuring, in an unhappy sort of a way, to think of it now.

Except I… I don't want to be at war with Loid… I just want to be friends again.

She sighed out long and slow, dropping her head. Her eyes fell to a little scrap of paper she had missed when tidying up earlier. The scrap was green, curling, barely anything, but on the dark tile, it did nearly look like the first poke through the soil of a new seedling.

Perhaps, then, instead of a war, it was a bit more like gardening, like she'd thought earlier… Lose the battle to win the war, she wondered, Or tend to a garden…?

Her parents had had a garden; she had tried to maintain it after their death. Then the Shopkeeper, of course, had his glorious garden where she had spent hours and hours and hours over the years. That cycle of growth, little spears of green poking through dark soil in spring; thinning out sprouts, encouraging them to flourish, and finally the eventual decay, old plant matter to fertilise the soil and bring new life, or to sustain the plants that stayed, that braved the winter cold…

It was delicate work. It was decisive work.

It was hopeful.

It took time.

And she hadn't ever really considered it this way, but she knew Loid spent a great deal of time in his head and with his thoughts. It… it made sense that she may not be the only one between them who might need time to think and work things through, didn’t it?

Curling her fingers against the hard wood of the door, the strange scraggly dragging sound of her hair against the door almost reassuring as she tipped her head back up, released a slow sigh. It was just that she wanted — she wished — he would take that time with her, instead of away from her.

Mm? Really? Is, is that true…?

Is that something… Can I wish for that?

Sh-should I wish for that?

Why am I wishing for that?!

Yor tipped her head down to look at the bed. At Loid’s pillow with its confusing and comforting scents, her pillow beside it. The blanket, drawn neatly and carefully across as it had been each time previous. She hadn't realised before, it was subtle, but the bed made neatly also made it inviting. Even when half of it was empty, the sheets cold.

Did Loid feel that way, when she made the bed for him, too?

Aren't we friends, Loid?!

Yor swallowed a whimper. Fatigue dried her eyes. She ought to go to sleep. She was still making up for the sleep deprivation and all the emotions she was feeling, all the thinking she was doing… She needed as much sleep as she could get. Willed herself to move, to change, to go to bed, to get rest. 

Persistent together for victory, right, Yor?

That's right.

She wasn't feeling the together part of their little motto at the moment, but she knew persistence.

And persistence required rest. Rest, Yor.

Back pressed against the wood of the door, she slid to the floor instead, drawing her knees up to her chest. The floor was cold under her bum and her knees weren't really any softer than the door but her forehead rested lightly on them nonetheless.

 

---

 

She managed a few hours of sleep. She woke up to her alarm feeling bruised again. Tender everywhere inside.

Drawing herself up, out of the bed she had finally convinced herself into, setting her hand to the door handle, Yor made herself think about the shower. How the running water and the steam and the warmth would help, would ease her muscles and wake her mind if nothing else. She could shower as long as she wished. Loid wouldn't say anything, and Anya wouldn't be awake for at least another half an hour, possibly longer.

Yes. So. Yor. Open the door.

“Mama!”

“Anya!”

Anya was standing in the hall outside her door, clearly waiting for her. Yor heard Loid moving around in the kitchen, sounding normal, but had something happened?

Before she could ask, Anya rolled up onto her toes, threw her arms in the air and told her ecstatically, “The mishun was a success! The Holgers are free!”

Notes:

Thank you for reading & I’d love to hear from you 💝

Chapter 8

Summary:

Uneasiness pooled in Yor’s stomach. She hadn’t actually thought to question it since Loid told her, but… Why did Loid adopt Anya…?

Notes:

A head’s up that I’ll be posting the next chapter next week & then this fic will go on a short, planned hiatus over the holidays, back in the first or second week of January 2025 🫶

Stepping in after Loid, and Anya, and Bond, Yor drew a breath, closing the door behind them all. The air was a little stale, but it was… it was home. Early morning light filtered through the closed curtains; she would open those in a moment.

She still felt tender; the ride from the safehouse had been stilted — despite the early hour and that Anya had been up earlier than usual on top of that, Anya's excitement to be going home mostly covered for whatever tension was between Loid and herself.

Yor set down her bag and took herself to the kitchen. She sunk into what had been her usual morning: taking out the kettle. Turning on the tap. Running enough water for a cup of tea. Setting the kettle on the stove top. Funny, isn't it, she thought to herself, turning on the hob, The reassurance of routine.

Although normal morning routine would have included putting on the coffee machine as well. But Loid was only dropping his things off, having to go back to Wise for a debrief… Leaving them again, just as soon as they'd arrived.

She turned her back on kettle and coffee machine both. It would take a few minutes for the water to boil. She should set her bag in her room, and then see about helping Anya unpack.

Yor drew to a stop at the kitchen entry. Anya was patting Loid's hand as he stood in his coat, hat in his other hand, looking down at Anya. 

“It's okay, Papa,” Anya said, looking up at him and nodding firmly. “Anya knows you have to talk to Boss Lady about the mishun. And to make sure Anya and Mama are safe. Anya understands.”

Yor couldn't see Loid's face, but his neck tensed and given his silence, he didn't seem to know what to say to her. But… Anya must be responding to his thoughts; Yor was certain she hadn't been so preoccupied to have missed them speaking.

And… To make sure Anya and Mama are safe. Safe? Yor would keep them all safe, but what would they need protection from…? Wise? Did they need to be safe from Wise?! No — Loid had said he trusted his, his — oh I can’t remember the word he used — Boss Lady, then. Loid had said he trusted his Boss Lady and the organisation… But could Anya mean safe from Wise? Or safe from… something else?

Uneasiness pooled in Yor’s stomach. She hadn’t actually thought to question it since Loid told her, but… Why did Loid adopt Anya?

If they weren’t a family, there would be nothing to keep Anya safe from… (That isn’t true, Yor — if Loid hadn’t adopted Anya, she still would have been kidnapped, and no one would have been there to save her —!)

She swallowed against the sick rise of bile in her throat at that thought. They were a family and Anya was safe. Look, Yor. Look at her: she was safe, standing right there. Not only safe — happy and sweet again.

“Mm,” Loid said noncommittally to Anya, “I’ll be back as soon as —”

“Anya has a mishun for Papa,” she interrupted.

“You… you do?”

“Papa has to convince Boss Lady that Mama is truth-worthy,” Anya said in just the same way as she would give orders to Agent Penguinman in her spy games. “So Papa can tell Mama about how he’s a spy—” Loid sucked in a sharp breath and Anya changed course, “About the truth. So Papa can talk to Mama.”

Loid straightened, turned, followed Anya's sightline and met Yor's eyes. It was the first time they'd made eye contact since Yor asked him her question — she felt as reluctant as he looked, and also as though she’d been spotted before she was ready to be seen.

Aren't we friends, Loid?!

Her stomach dropped, her heart twinged, she looked away, back to Anya.

Anya always mispronounced psychiatrist, why did Loid react this time? And the, the ‘truth’ Anya was… hearing? In Loid’s thoughts? What did that have to do with, with Yor? Or Anya? With both of them? That Anya felt it so important he tell Yor about it? Or was she picking up that Loid felt it was important?

… Why did he adopt Anya?

And actually… Is it… Should I… Knowing he isn't who I… Is it… strange… he agreed so quickly to marry me…?

“I…” she began. But she couldn’t lie, could she? If Anya was reading Loid’s thoughts, she might be, was probably, reading Yor’s too (Can she read two people at once? Does her head not hurt, with other people’s thoughts inside?) and Anya would know if she lied.

Heedless, Anya went on, “So the Holgers can get back to business.”

Yor felt too far away from her daughter but also didn’t want to be so close to Loid —

Stop it, Yor. This is important.

Her legs heavy, she made herself step to where they were standing in the entryway, and she knelt. She kept her eyes on Anya, didn’t so much as glance at Loid, though she felt his eyes still on her. The back of her neck heated.

“Anya, darling,” she began gently. “Your Papa can’t do that.”

Loid jolted nearly imperceptibly beside her at the same time Anya said, “Why?”

Yor bit her lip, resisted darting a look up at Loid. Finally, she began, “Because… things have changed. And your Papa and I…” What can I say? What can I say? I don't want to worry her, I can't lie… “That isn't really about your Papa and I. What we… It matters what our, our organisations decide.”

Anya’s sweet little face pulled into a confused frown that broke Yor’s heart. Before she could figure out what else to say, Anya said, “But now Papa knows who Mama is. He thinks something m—”

“Yor’s right,” Loid said abruptly. “It’s likely our, uh, bosses will need to discuss it before anything else can happen with… the… truth.” He stepped forward and Yor could sense his hesitation without looking at him. He bent and put his hand on Anya’s head. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said quietly. Then added, “I’ll bring home cake.”

“Cake!” Anya cheered.

Then, to Yor’s surprise, Loid’s voice sounded strangled when he added, “And don’t you finish that other sentence once I leave.”

Anya’s expression turned mutinous, and Yor didn’t need to look to know Loid would have narrowed his eyes back at her —

Weariness was pulling Yor’s shoulders towards her ears when Loid sighed heavily and Anya’s face transformed into triumph. She singsonged, “Another bag of peanuts!” 

Tension melted from Yor’s back, she almost smiled to herself, almost turned to Loid remembering his comment about Anya telling him she planned to bribe Becky for the answers to their homework, almost said I wonder why Anya thought bribing Becky would be a good option —

But. She, she didn't have it in her to pretend everything was all right just now. She turned her face away from Anya and Loid both, just for a moment, just to draw a breath.

Loid cleared his throat. “Right. See you both… See you.”

Yor drew to her feet as the door closed behind Loid. The kettle was sounding — “Say, Anya,” Yor said, shaking off her gloom and mustering some energy. “Would you like some hot chocolate? We can have a warm drink and then start unpacking.”

“Okie!”

“Okay! Oh, Bond!” As he ambled up behind Anya, nosing into her shoulders, Yor couldn’t believe she’d forgotten about him. “I'm so sorry, Bond! Anya, please can you help me put Bond's water and food dishes out while I make the drinks?”

 

---

 

After their enjoying drinks at the familiar dining table, Anya climbing into her high seat cheerfully, they spent some time unpacking, sinking together into what it was like to be home. Anya still wasn’t allowed in Yor’s room, just for the time being, just until Yor figured out how to make it safe for her, much to Anya’s open hurt annoyance. When finally Yor set a load of laundry to wash, she joined Anya at the coffee table. A bright wash of crayons were spilled across the table, a stack of blank paper beside Anya’s elbow as she concentrated on what she was drawing.

Yor didn't ever really try to interpret Anya's drawings, content to have Anya tell her in her own words. Loid couldn't help attempting to guess what their daughter had drawn, nearly always incorrectly, leaving both him and Anya miffed, if in different directions.

Perching on the edge of the couch, Yor leaned forward and picked up a crayon, taking a piece of paper. “What are you drawing, Anya?”

“The Queen of Spades from Anya’s card game. And her henchlings! The Fours!”

Yor had forgotten that about the Fours. 

… truth be told, Yor had forgotten almost all the rules.

She clapped her hands. “That sounds wonderful, Anya! I think I’ll draw, um, maybe I’ll draw the Queen’s Jester!”

“The Queen’s Jester is like Scruffyhead,” Anya informed her very seriously and Yor's laugh was true.

“I’m sure he’d be honoured,” she said, lowering her hand from her mouth, trying to decide whether or not she would tell Franky the next time she saw him. Perhaps not.

As Yor decided to give him a bright orange costume, reaching into the pile of crayons and picking up a handful to sort through, Anya said slyly, “Papa thinks something might happen. Now Papa knows who Mama is.”

Yor dropped the crayons. Surely the clatter wasn’t nearly as loud as it seemed. Crayons were made out of wax — right? Or was it some sort of plastic? No, something else, or was that chalk… Chalk must be made from chalk. So crayons, yes, must be wax. Right? And so the sound couldn’t have been that loud…  

Focus, Yor!

‘Papa thinks something might happen.’

What does that mean? What does that mean? What does that mean?

Anya said it as though it were a secret (?) but how can that be? Though Loid did cut her off, so it must be a secret?

But?

Why??

‘Something might happen.’

Things (?) happen (?) every day (?). So… something will happen. Not ‘might.’ Will. Right? (?) What… what does Loid mean? What does Loid mean such that he didn’t want Anya to say it? (?)

How can ‘Something might happen’ be a secret? (???)

No, never mind, Yor. Leave it. Trying to make sense of what Anya said was making her mind cloud and her head spin. With a quiet whine to herself, Yor shook her head to clear it.

It only half-helped.

“Anya,” Yor said seriously instead, focusing on what was actually important, and holding up a finger to her to show her this was a rule. “When you promise something to someone, you should do everything you can to keep that promise. I know you didn’t say the words I promise to your Papa, but he thought that was what you meant.”

Anya stared at her for a moment, then said quietly, “Sorry, Mama.”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell Loid.” Or think about it again. She also would have a word with Loid about bribing their daughter as a means of getting her to promise things, though. What with all the secrets and lies in their home, bribing was another thing teaching her confusing principles. “I know next time you’ll do your best to keep your promise! Right?”

“Oui!”

“Good,” Yor beamed proudly at her. “Let’s get back to drawing!”

 

---

 

All well and good to tell herself not to think about it. When Anya yawned and swayed, and asked if she could take a nap on the couch, Yor settled down beside her, picking up the magazine she had been reading before… before everything changed. But as soon as Anya’s breathing shifted register, all Yor could think was Now Papa knows who Mama is… Papa thinks something might happen and couldn’t make sense of it any better now than she’d been able to an hour ago.

Things… Things always happened. Did he mean it badly, for all Anya seemed to say it almost like it was a grand, exciting secret?

Although… What had Anya said earlier? When giving Loid a ‘mission?’ Loid needed to talk to his Boss Lady to make sure Anya and Mama are safe.

Never mind Wise… Did Loid think Yor's job put the Forgers at risk?

Yor would never allow that — surely Loid knew that? If, if he knew nothing else about her?! He should know that! Yor would never let anything happen — to either of them. To Anya or to Loid. Even after all this. Yor would do everything. Give everything. To keep them safe.

Sinking deeper into the couch, the familiar, comforting couch, Yor wrapped an arm across her middle, taking slow breaths. She looked at the ceiling. She refused to be anything but comforted in her home. Turning her head to look down, Yor stroked Anya’s head with her free hand, ran her fingers over the horns which were back, finally, in Anya’s hair.

Loid had adopted Anya one week before Yor had met them — and he’d married her three days after they’d met.

My late wife's wish —

But there was no late wife — or, Yor supposed, Loid might have a late wife, or — with a sudden, sick drop of her stomach — a wife — !!

No!

But… 

Well. Why not, Yor…?

It doesn’t… it doesn’t matter if he does. It isn’t as though, as though we’re… truly husband and wife… We’re friends, just about, maybe. I — I hope. No, I, I in-insist. But we're not… we’re not… This marriage isn’t real. A marriage of convenience, that’s all.

To you, I am Loid Forger.

…

Who knew what life he led… Before… M-maybe there was a late wife, just under different circumstances. Or maybe… maybe there wasn’t. Maybe there wasn’t a lot of things… Maybe there hadn’t ever been any chamomile…

Yor curled her hand into a fist, and shook her head. Don’t be — don’t be ridiculous, Yor. I had my secrets. Still… still do. Even if I want… She shook her head again more vigorously. Same as Loid.

What had she been thinking before? Right… There was (probably) no late wife, at least none whose wish was for Anya to attend Eden. So… why? Why did he need a daughter? Had he agreed to marry Yor because he also needed a wife? Needed a… a whole pretend family…?

Maybe what he told me then was true? He needed a wife, me, for the Eden entrance interview…? And I better understand now, how strict Eden is. So maybe my proposal for a marriage of convenience was… well, convenient…

It came back to her then: On the way to find Anya… she had asked him, had needed him, to care that Anya had been taken. She had no doubts now; everything they discussed about Anya, the way Loid reacted, how affected he was… In everything, Yor was warmed by Loid’s obvious care for Anya. She trusted him as much as she did, in part because of his plain love for their daughter. She wouldn’t argue, Anya was their daughter. Was Loid’s daughter. (Or — or the daughter of whoever Loid really was… And Anya, Yor realised with a shock, probably knew exactly who Loid really was, far better than Yor did…!)

But… before that, in the van, Yor hadn’t been sure, couldn’t know, and had asked questions. And Loid’s answers… 

What did I ask exactly…?  

‘Do you care that Anya’s been taken? Or is this about something else?’

He’d said he did, that he did care, and Yor remembered just how much of a relief that had been. Except then — she’d forgotten, in everything that happened after, in the confusing, stressful time at the safehouse — he’d said “But.” Before being cut off by their driver knocking on the partition.

But — what?

He cared, but — ?

She had asked, Do you care that Anya’s been taken? And he had said, I care that Anya was taken.

And she had also asked, Or is this about something else?  

I care that Anya was taken —

But —

But… it is about something else?

Her palm was stinging. Yor opened her fist. “Not again,” she whispered. Carefully got up from the couch and went on silent feet to the bathroom. Loid kept an all-purpose first aid kit there, but Yor had a more extensive one hidden in the drawer with her makeup and menstrual products. To find all her things, exactly as they'd always been, was a relief Yor couldn't explain.

She carefully cleaned the four crescent-shaped punctures in her palm with the stronger antiseptic to counter whatever bacteria may have been under her nails. As she was wrapping her hand, the front door opened and Loid said, “I’m home.”

Yor carefully put the first aid kit back. Glanced at Anya still asleep on the couch, then went to find Loid putting the cake box away in the fridge.

When he straightened and turned to her, Yor asked, “Why do you need Anya to attend Eden College?”

And saw as he froze for a split second before the cold, expressionless mask she hadn't seen in days slammed down once more.

Notes:

My many thanks to Countrymint for reading this over ♥!

I'd say this is a lighter chapter but... is it?? Shorter at least!

Thank you so much for reading 💞 and I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Chapter 9

Summary:

Interlude

Notes:

My thanks to Countrymint for reading this over and for general reassurances & discussion ♥! And many thanks to Cantare, who read this first when it was actually going to be a prologue (!) and for giving the initial feedback which led to its existence. It's turned out to be exactly what was needed before we move into the next part of the story 😊

INTERLUDE:
The weekend before Anya's kidnapping

 

Watching Loid handle the child’s size basketball was so adorable and funny that Yor couldn’t help but laugh to herself. Anya’s outrage that he could hold it in one hand while it more than filled her two made Yor laugh all over again — though she hid that one behind her hand to keep from upsetting Anya. Anya probably wouldn’t have heard her — Yor was on their picnic blanket under the shade of a nearby tree, Bond lying beside her. Near enough that she could just hear them over by the basket, but her hearing was finely tuned. The breeze would carry her laughter away from the court and from Anya’s ears.

“No, Anya,” Loid said, just the edge of frustration starting to creep in. “One hand at the base of the ball, the other to steady it at the side.”

And for Anya’s part, Yor could see she was trying, but the ball was still a bit big. Still, diligently Anya’s hand went to the base, the other creeping to the side. “That’s it!” Loid said, and Yor could see how Anya lit up, even as she narrowed her eyes in concentration. “Now,” said Loid, “You want to flick your wrist as you throw the ball…”

That… was utterly beyond Anya. She flicked both wrists, sending the ball out of bounds towards the right, rather than forward. Anya stared after the ball. Loid put a hand on his hip. Then Anya looked up at him, expression flat, and — oh, Loid, please don’t be hard on her — Loid’s shoulders dropped. Then he dropped to one knee beside Anya and said, “That was good technique, flicking with your right hand, Anya.” Yor released a breath. “Next time keep your left hand steady. It will help guide the ball.”

Always serious, Loid had also been a little more gruff and impatient with Anya over the winter; Yor thought it was probably just normal familial ebb and flow. There were always the occasional doldrums, and the winter months in particular could be hard. But she was relieved his mood seemed to be lifting in the last few weeks. He'd had another particularly difficult patient at the hospital, which had left him pensive. Sort of ironically, Yor thought, it actually seemed to lead to this improved mood. Still, Yor shook her head to herself, she'd never have imagined psychiatry could be so violent.

Presently, Anya seemed to be contemplating his explanation. She narrowed her eyes and said in her serious voice, “Like when Bondman aims his gun?”

Yor tipped her head to one side. She didn’t quite see the connection — it seemed Loid didn’t either, for the way he also tipped his head. He shook it off more quickly than Yor did, though, saying, “Sort of. Your left hand is… a little like using a sight, I suppose. And you do want to keep your right hand steady, as you would before taking a shot.”

Yor blinked in surprise. Was it normal to know the terms for aiming a gun? Was it normal to know how to aim a gun? Then again, Loid had thrown himself into knowing Spy Wars comics and cartoon inside out and backwards since Anya had fallen in love with them… he probably picked it up there.

“Shall we try again?” he asked hopefully.

“Anya wants to play with Bond.”

After an extended silence, Loid said, “You were close to getting it right with that last one, Anya. Three more shots and then you can play with Bond.”

Anya groaned, but Yor also saw how her face was bright, dashing to get the basketball.

Loid actually managed to get her to do four shots — namely because the third one had been very close to getting in. His mistake, Yor thought, was in trying to explain to her the concept of rebounds when Anya’s fourth shot bounced wildly. If it were possible to hear someone’s eyes glazing over, Yor thought she’d have been deafened by Anya’s response to his attempts at explaining the mechanics.

Anya bounded back to Yor, asking for juice and demanding if Yor saw when her throw nearly went in. “I did, Anya! It was so close!”

“So close, Mama! Papa said if Anya can get it in, it’s 200 points!”

“I did not say that,” Loid said dryly, ambling up. Yor smiled up at him in welcome and offered him some juice, too.

“The most you can get is three points,” Yor said as they drank. Yor’s typical style — force, power, energy — wasn’t really the best way to start with basketball but she did enjoy imagining teaching Anya to throw the ball across the court for a three-pointer once she had a handle on the basics. Although they may need to do a little strength training first… “Maybe you can practise those shots once you’ve mastered the two pointers.” Yor would, in the meantime, practise herself to make sure she didn’t throw the ball so hard that she accidentally demolished the basket.

“Does the goal always explode?” Anya asked, and Yor startled, taking in Anya’s wide-eyes. Sometimes it’s like she knows what I'm thinking! Anya jolted when Yor laughed awkwardly, “No! It never explodes! Why would you think that, Anya?”

“A cartoon,” Anya said, still looking alarmed. “It-it happened in a cartoon.”

That makes sense . Yor waved a hand. “You have nothing to worry about! The wood for the backboard and the metal hoop are very strong!” Just not quite strong enough for me if I don’t hold back. “And you have to throw the ball from much further away, to get the three points.”

“We should master basic ball control, passing and closer shots first, though,” Loid said off Anya’s calculating look. “You won’t be able to aim from far away if you can’t aim from close.”

“Loid’s right,” Yor said with a nod. “You must master the basics.”

“Okey. But Anya’s done for today.” And before either of them could say anything, Anya called for Bond and the two bounced away.

Still, Yor thought Loid seemed in relatively good spirits as he joined her on the picnic blanket. She was about to say something about how Anya was taking to basketball when, “Papaaaaaaa!” Anya hollered, “There’s a beeeee!”

Loid called back, “Don’t panic. It will leave you alone if you walk away slowly and calmly.”

They both watched as Anya took very slow, large and deliberate steps away from wherever she’d seen the bee. Yor laughed, watching Bond mimic Anya. He was a very clever dog.

“I wish you’d been there when I was making Yuri tea when we were young,” Yor said idly to Loid.

She felt his gaze land on her. Normally she really did not like people watching her, but she never minded when Loid did. It was very strange but she sometimes, maybe even always, kind of liked when he looked. Loid asked, “Oh?”

“Mhm.” Yor turned to look at him. Loid had laid down beside her on the picnic blanket, the long stretch of his legs drew her eye, his casual, slightly worn jeans. He’d taken off his cardigan to play, and was only in a t-shirt in the spring warmth. It draped across his lean torso, his strong arms on display, folded to prop up his head. Swallowing, Yor lifted her eyes to his face ( handsome face, she thought weakly) and heat touched her cheeks. But if Loid had noticed her looking, he didn’t give any sign, only looked back at her with an open, curious expression.

“Um,” she said. What had she been saying before? Bees. Tea. Yuri. Right. “It was the first time Yuri had been sick after our parents died, and I was in a panic. I know now it was just a cold. Rest and good… um, nutritious food would have been more than enough. But at the time, with his first fever, it had seemed like the end of the world.” She smiled, shaking her head at her silliness. Something gentler warmed Loid’s eyes and Yor glanced away. “I was desperate, and one of our neighbours advised I make him herbal tea. Well. I didn’t know anything about herbs. She said there were some on a mountain near us, and so I went to get them.” It was easy to talk about now, but she did remember the way she’d teared around the hillside. “I took whatever smelled herbal.” Yor chuckled. “Though thinking back, I’m certain there was some grass in there too. Anyway, I got on the wrong side of some bees —”

“You were stung?”

“Many times,” Yor said, laughing. She twisted to look back at him, pointed to her forehead, her eyebrow, three different spots on her cheeks, then also her lip, her jaw. “And all down my arms. Yuri was beside himself when I got home but it was all right. They were actually more trouble than the boar —”

“I’m sorry?” 

“Oh, I also upset a boar. But it did make for a good dinner — that one I’m fairly confident actually did taste good…”

“You… killed a wild boar?” Loid asked weakly. “How old were you?”

“Oh!” Yor sat up straight in alarm. I guess that isn’t normal! I had started my training so I had tricks up my sleeve but… “It’s not what you think! I was just lucky! A branch — it, it fell. Just when I needed it! And it was heavy. And the boar — it, um, was old (probably) and one good whack was all it took… I was very lucky?” Loid stared at her, and Yor gulped, quickly adding, “But the tea worked!”

"Is that so," Loid said, after a tense beat. “After all the trouble you went through, I’m relieved to hear it.”

Swallowing her own sigh of relief, Yor smiled. “It worked very well. Yuri actually still drinks something like it when he’s sick. Bear’s Herbal Tea?” Loid pulled a face and Yor laughed. “I know! But he says it works like a charm, so…” she shrugged. “And Yuri and I went up the mountain again after he recovered. We found a lovely meadow to picnic in and I didn’t have any trouble with bees that time.” 

“Mm…” When he didn’t continue, Yor glanced at him. Loid’s expression had shifted, turned a little blank and mostly inward, that look he got when he was thinking things through. Yor let him think, content to watch Anya and Bond play. They really were a pair of kindred spirits; it was probably terrible to think, but sometimes Yor was grateful for that evil scum who’d planned the terrorist attack. They may never have found Bond otherwise — and what would have happened to him then?!

Beside her, Loid shifted and she glanced down. He’d pulled his hands from beneath his head, long fingers linked over his stomach as he looked up into the tree above them. “When I was young,” he said slowly, his tone reflective and tender and a little sad. Whenever he spoke this way, Yor felt she was getting a small piece of something special. Something precious, to be kept safe. Loid shared so little of his past — Yor never asked, since her past was a minefield when it came to keeping her profession a secret. She assumed he had a great deal of loss he didn’t want to talk about, like most of the adults of their generation. “I was… away from… home,” he said this carefully. Yor imagined he was avoiding some particularly painful detail; that was all right. “I had recently…” He drew a breath, held it for a moment. Released it slowly, shaking his head. “I found myself in a forest, and wandered off the path. The forest trees were close, almost oppressive, and I thought maybe I’d be lost in the woods forever.” Yor smiled a little, in sympathy. She knew that feeling. “All at once the woods opened up. Onto a field of flowers — it seemed endless. I don’t know if it was cultivated, or somehow natural, untouched, but it was… It was very beautiful… I didn’t know most of the flowers, but it was the right time of year for chamomile to be in full bloom and the wind carried the scent.” Her eyes dropped to Loid’s hands over his stomach. His fingers had tightened on each other. Yor’s hand tingled a little. She tightened it into a loose fist, stroking her fingers over her palm to try and work away the strange feeling. She and Loid didn’t touch each other, except by accident or when she was drunk (always a disaster); inexplicable that she wanted to reach towards him now. Forcing her eyes back to Loid’s face, she focused on his pensive expression. “It had been a difficult time,” Loid said matter-of-factly. Yor swallowed the impulse to make a sympathetic sound in response to this. “And the scent of chamomile… It still makes me feel… calmer, when I smell it.”

“Loid…” Yor said softly. His mouth quirked, almost like he tried to smile but couldn’t quite. Yor’s chest ached for him: she often thought Loid could use more in his life to soothe him. He put so much weight on his shoulders: for Anya, for his patients, even for Yor herself… She didn’t like him doing so much by himself. She didn’t like imagining Loid as a young boy, lost in the woods. What a shame that they hadn’t grown up by the same woods, the same mountains. Maybe they’d have found one another. But she did her best now to help, and sometimes… sometimes lately her best actually felt good enough. 

It was why she had tried, a little while ago. The date she'd planned, and, and her gift at the end. But she didn't think he'd used it, so she must have got something wrong. Perhaps she ought to have gotten chamomile instead of lavender…

Chamomile, huh… 

“We should grow some chamomile,” Yor mused out loud. And as soon as she said it — yes, what a nice idea! Yor thought back; it had been some time since she’d last done any gardening. “Or perhaps, it may need an autumn sowing. I’ll find out! But if it isn’t too late, then we should have our own little field in pots on the balcony in a few months. The scent would come in our open windows in the summer, that would be lovely. We could probably do you a window box, Loid! I’ll find out how much root space they need, but I bet we could find a way.” She wouldn’t mind a window box herself, but it would be impractical, given she sometimes needed to climb in and out of her bedroom that way. She’d constantly be destroying them and she doubted she could come up with feasible explanations each time. What a shame. Before Loid could say anything, Yor added, “Ohhh, and it would be so good for Anya to play in the dirt! Learn about plants and,” Yor shuddered — the worst part of gardening , the reason, she was remembering, that she’d given it up at the first opportunity — “Bugs. Oh! And we could make tea! Perhaps we could do some mint as well…” Yor looked over at Loid. “What do you think?”

He was watching her, some expression on his face that she couldn’t quite name. She didn’t think he was upset: she was starting to feel a little warm under his gaze, like the sun had broken through the trees and she hadn’t realised. She’d started to notice moments like these. They didn’t happen often — or perhaps she missed them more than she noticed them. Moments where Loid seemed to turn inward in a different sort of way to usual, some thoughts in his mind that — that weren’t Yor’s business and she had no right to be curious about — but they did mean he took longer to answer than he normally did. She knew that she just had to wait. 

Although…

Although presently… the longer he was quiet, the longer he thought and watched her with that… that unnameable expression, which didn’t feel bad and actually felt nice, made her warm and fluttery, but still she couldn’t name it and — and she couldn’t name it, so she began to worry she’d said something wrong. 

Be patient, Yor! It probably hasn’t even been a whole minute —  

Loid said, “Anya would like that.” The wind ruffled his hair and he smiled a little at her, and if his smile seemed somehow subdued, his voice was soft, “And so would I.”

Yor had to look away. Her cheeks were burning. A pleasant swoop in her stomach. That wouldn’t do at all. “I’m glad!” she told the empty basketball court. 

“We’ll have to keep the mint isolated though,” Loid said after a moment, his voice returned to normal. “I only know a little about gardening, but mint gets everywhere. Even in pots.”

“Even in pots?” Yor turned to him curiously, heated cheeks and strange feelings forgotten. “How does it do that?”

So Loid told her. And they discussed how to keep the mint where it was meant to be. Yor wondered idly aloud about a few other tea plants — strawberries grew in Berlint, she knew, and did well in pots. And lemongrass. Loid suggested lavender — lavender! Maybe I wasn't wrong? But — and sage. Sage, he explained, was even hardy into the cooler months.

As though his mention of autumn summoned them, clouds started to roll in, and they decided it was probably best to pack up.

Anya and Bond ran back when Yor called. “Playing in a garden sounds fun,” Anya told them.

Yor looked at her in surprise, but Loid said, “The wind carried our voices over to you, did it? Well, it’s a little premature, but we can go to the nursery next weekend to get more information.”

"Let's go Sunday," Yor suggested. "There's a new cafe by the nursery, we can have a little treat there."

"Perfect," Loid said. Then he looked into their basket and said, “Say, Anya. We only have one of the basketballs here. Do you know where the other one is?”

“Oui!” And she ran back towards the court.

Loid watched her for a moment, then said to Yor, “If it weren’t for the wind, I’d think she could hear our thoughts.”

“I was thinking the same thing earlier today!” Yor laughed.

Loid smiled at her, bringing a little of that sunshine feeling again, and when Anya came back with the missing ball, Loid told her he’d planned to make Hamburg steak for dinner. As Anya cheered, he glanced at Yor and said, “And I picked up the squash you like. I thought I’d try a new side dish recipe.” 

Yor felt her cheeks heat again, “That sounds lovely,” she told him, beaming, letting all the warmth and happiness of the afternoon nestle in her chest. She would carry the feeling with her throughout the week, she decided, and what fun they'd have, at the nursery next Sunday.

Notes:

Okay we’re on short hiatus until January 2025! I hope you have a wonderful new year 🎆✨ and I look forward to seeing you on the other side 🤗! Here's a small teaser as a wee promise to tide you over till then:

Click me for a chapter 10 sneak peak

Then again, if someone had asked Twilight a week ago whether Yor could be an elite assassin, he’d have said that Yor had many strengths but could not skin a potato without skinning herself, so there was absolutely no way.

Of course now… Twilight released a slow breath. He had rarely deemed the word elite to be more aptly descriptive.

Thank you so much for reading & I’d love to hear from you 🫶🎆

Chapter 10

Summary:

“Aren’t we friends, Loid?”

Notes:

We're back! I'm so excited to get stuck in 😊

An updated summary! My many thanks to @briefhottubcoffee for her help with workshopping this re-do!! Oh, and uh, an update to chapter count (weheyyyy. Sorry? Not sorry? Sorry? That it's increased!)

Also as it’s been a minute since the last update...

So click me for a brief “where we left off” refresher (sorry to folks on e-readers, it won't hide for you. You can skip to the chapter start if you want to avoid this, there's nothing else in this a/n)

In the main timeline of the fic, the Forgers were able to return home from the safehouse! There was renewed, or maybe re-kindled, tension between Yor and Loid after Yor asked Loid a loaded question on their last night at the safehouse. Almost as soon as they arrived home, Loid departed for a debrief at Wise, after receiving a special mishun from Anya, also bargaining with her to keep secret one of his thoughts she nearly revealed to Yor. Yor puzzled a few things through about Anya and Eden, asking him another loaded question upon his return from Wise.
Though we pick up a little earlier than that…

Sunday, at the safehouse, middle of the night

 

“I want to, to tell you — Aren't we, weren't we —” Twilight watched Yor bring her clutched hands tight to her chest. Anguished, she asked him, “Aren’t we friends, Loid?”

His ears rang. Something hollowed his chest. His stomach cramped viciously.

I've hurt her.

Deeply.

 

He'd known she was hurt, obviously —the lie that was the Forgers—

This was different.

 

 

It's me. Not our situation or my past actions. Something recent. Something here.

I've hurt her.

 

 

 

What did I do wrong? Where did I misstep?

Wrong questions, Twilight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How do I fix this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

Yes.

---

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

No.

 

---

---

 

Riding down the photobooth elevator to WISE HQ, Twilight resisted pinching the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he shouldn't have returned home first; had he come straight here, he'd have avoided Anya's near-disclosures and especially her edicts. Papa has to convince Boss Lady that Mama is truth-worthy. So Papa can talk to Mama.

… So Papa can talk to Mama? Twilight couldn't recall a time he had spoken quite so much as he spoke with Yor in their time at the safehouse. He could play gregarious when he needed to, obviously. Loid Forger in public was prone to a certain enthusiastic talkativeness that could, if Twilight wasn't careful, leave him drained. But the sort of focused, precarious conversations he and Yor had had all weekend…? He could navigate them in the course of his work, but never had he done more than one in an extended period of time. And he normally arranged those sorts of conversations such that he spoke as little as possible, only so much as it laid the groundwork for his target to give him everything.

Yor had not been a target. Not in the usual sense. It wasn’t intel he’d needed.

She hadn't met his eyes since last night.

And as the elevator dinged! to a stop, the doors rattling open, he couldn’t say he relished the next conversation ahead of him either.

Handler turned her head his way as he stepped out of the elevator. Twilight made his way over to her.

Anya knows you have to talk to Boss Lady about the mishun. And to make sure Anya and Mama are safe. Anya understands.

‘Understands?’ What does she understand?

Twilight had barely taken a seat before Handler waved a budget sheet at him. “The cost of that operation! Our Garden contact made it abundantly clear they were working at a steep discount — that was an interesting exchange. You couldn't have waited six hours?”

“The situation required an immediate response,” Twilight said evenly.

Handler's eyes narrowed, then she let out a heavy breath. “So you've said.” Handler raised her hand to forestall anything more he might say — he hadn't actually been planning to say anything. “Let's not rehash that argument,” she said, shaking her head. “What's done is done.”

What's done is done, an invaluable spy axiom. One he had internalised by his very first mission. Observe, process, react. Take nothing for granted. When things change, when ploys fail, even when they succeed: accept. Respond or react accordingly. Move forward.

What's done is done.

He had been struggling to keep a handle on that principle over the last few days. Each time his stomach twinged when he utilised spycraft tactics to guide conversations with Yor. Every time he remembered what he had allowed to happen to Anya.

“Obviously you know the mission was a success,” Handler went on. Twilight focused his attention. “Our holding cells are full — HQ in Westalis is arranging transport for the higher priority prisoners, but that's going to take time. It's high risk but they deem it worth it.” Twilight agreed: given the way these things went, there was a decent chance Westalis could turn many of the scientists. Either to reveal various of their secrets and research or to start working for Westalis. And their research may give Westalis an edge.

Knowing what he did of their work, part of him wished none of the scientists had survived.

Stop that.

“We aren't entirely sure what kind of response to expect from whoever orchestrated their operation,” Handler went on. “Though Garden were willing to leave evidence to indicate their involvement. Or rather: they remain as fantastically implausible to Ostania's authorities as they'd previously seemed to us. So it may be more accurate to say the evidence will point away from us.”

“Understood. And intelligence?”

“Heh.” Handler spun in her chair to indicate the board behind her. As though Twilight hadn't already memorised its contents. Maps. Key names. A comprehensive list of departments at the facility: four times the number he and Yor had found on their infiltration. But for all that, it was clear WISE weren't confident as to the identity of the funding body. Which suggests no direct links, as yet, to Donovan. Nor to Project Apple, then.

On that point… Is Anya really safe…?

“This is only part of the initial review,” Handler went on, “We also have endless boxes of paperwork, of course. It will take months to process.” She turned to face him, eyes sharp on his face. “As yet, we haven't found a record for Anya Forger — or any of her other previous names.”

Twilight allowed himself to frown: the barest tension between his brows. His tones were clipped, “Does that mean she's still at risk?”

Handler believed him to be (knew him to be) compromised. If he didn't seem worried…

Of course they hadn't found her file; Anya's file remained in his possession. Alongside a baker's dozen other files he'd taken to be judiciously scrubbed in ways similar to Anya's as soon as he could get away to see Franky. It made the skin between his shoulder blades itch to alter otherwise useful intel. But it would be suspicious if only Anya's file turned up belatedly; if only Anya's file showed failed experimentation in the specific ways he had planned. He assumed there would be legitimate failures, such was the nature of experimentation, but he wasn't willing to gamble on it.

Handler was already suspicious. And they would already have deduced that he and Yor had found Anya in the Telepathy wing based on the evidence path of their infiltration.

“We'll know better once we process the files we do have,” she said evenly, still watching closely. “Many of the files indicate similar experiments done to human subjects as were done to the animals in Project Apple. Has Anya spoken at all about that?”

Twilight shook his head. “No specifics. She mentioned some isolation, being left alone for periods of time when the scientists were disappointed in her.” Anya had said no such thing; he'd taken that from her file. He had many failings as a father, he knew, but he was retroactively relieved that isolation was never a punishment he had considered, let alone utilised. “I don't know if she told Yor Briar anything more,” he added. “I will ask when I return home.”

“Hm,” Handler said. Have I completely lost my touch or will she take my bait — “We won't know for certain that Anya is safe until we've gone through everything. However, as you no doubt noticed, there is someone stationed to watch the Park Avenue apartment. Garden clearly values Yor Briar as one of their assets, as they have volunteered their own people for two-thirds of those shifts. How are things between you and Yor Briar?”

Twilight shifted his weight in his seat. A calculated honest response. “Strained. She has questions I haven't been able to answer.”

Aren't we fri—

Not now, Twilight.

“Mm. I'm not surprised. Whether it's one of her unanswered questions or not, you may as well explain to her who we are. Garden will inform her of it at her next briefing in any case. What is your assessment of the risk of telling her the name you go by?”

Something clenched around his lungs. Twilight didn't let it outwardly show. “Negligible. Whatever else she may think —” or feel “— Yor Briar won't betray me if it may put Anya at risk either of violence or emotional distress. There is also a high likelihood she isn't aware of me or my reputation. And I believe it may help to rebuild the rupture between us.” He inclined his head. “She would, however, likely tell Garden.”

“Hmm…” Handler set her elbow on the desk, leaning her chin on her propped hand. “That is a complicating factor. Garden are undoubtedly aware of you: they may now also suspect your identity.” Tapping a nail on her desk, Handler murmured, “Is there any point in delay…”

“WISE's aims with Garden?”

“Continued development towards a potential formal relationship. Garden actually exceed the lore of their legend.”

“That was my observation of Yor Briar, as well.”

“Yes,” Handler said dryly. “I saw some of her handiwork first hand. And yours,” she added. “Good to see you haven't lost your touch, even if you did temporarily lose your mind.”

Positive, that she was calling that temporary.

“I suppose a better question is: should we pull the plug on Strix?”

Even prepared for the question, he fought the impulse to tighten his hands to fists. “No. Yor Briar remains committed as the Forger matriarch and Anya's mother. And even if she weren't,” since he was only actually certain about the latter of those two things, “Or if Garden wanted the arrangement to end, Strix should withstand a divorce. Though better if we could negotiate it named publicly as an estrangement. Ending the mission would raise suspicion after the take down of that operation. It would take years to get as close to Donovan Desmond again.” And it would leave Anya extremely vulnerable. He wasn't going to allow that.

“That is also my assessment. Strix continues. And little Anya?” Handler asked, voice softening marginally. “How is she holding up?”

“She's… doing well,” Twilight said, again allowing a modicum of his honest uneasiness to show. “I don't understand it.”

He met Handler's eyes again from where he'd looked aside in frustration. She gave him a long look and then said quietly, evenly, “Children are resilient when they're in loving homes.”

Twilight jerked. Visibly. That hadn't been calculated — but Handler's sigh suggested he'd gotten away with it.

Setting that slip aside and trying to ignore how the ambient noise in the office seemed suddenly deafening in his ears: Could it be that simple? Was their home loving? There was no doubt that Anya knew Yor loved her — Twilight did his best to ensure she knew he would keep her safe and healthy; well fed with a warm bed and a solid roof over her head; that she had his support, especially when she really needed it.

But, loving?

His stomach protested. Something deep inside him shrunk.

Twilight lifted his eyes, met Handler's once more. She was waiting. She would expect him to concede and he had to maintain — for Anya's safety, and to keep them from looking too closely at Yor —

Ignoring the hair standing on the back of his neck, ignoring the cramp in his stomach, “I… suppose… that could explain it,” he conceded. “At least in part.”

Couldn't help that equivocation, Twilight? He sighed in the (true, for as long as he was out of the house) privacy of his mind. Slipping? No, he'd long slipped. He stopped himself from drawing a hand down his face.

“In part,” Handler repeated with a twist of irony in her tones. Perhaps the equivocation had helped sell it. “To the point at hand. Do you tell Yor Briar that you are Twilight?”

Twilight considered. “I'll see how the conversation goes regarding WISE. We haven't directly discussed Westalis or her views of the war. I've inferred she has strong feelings about preventing war: she was receptive to my initial explanations.” Handler nodded; Twilight wasn't sure how much Yor's receptiveness had to do with his 'unofficial' reasons over his 'official' ones though. She had softened to him with the anti-war goals of WISE; she had softened further when he told her about Anya and the real reason for his work.

No, Twilight. Stop prevaricating. She had opened to him wholly when he admitted he was explaining himself to her because he wanted her to know.

Aren't we f—

He went on evenly through the needle-sharp stab near his solar plexus, “She was emphatic when denying she was an intelligence agent the one and only time I witnessed her asked, so there is the possibility she will react poorly.” He appreciated Handler's lack of comment on the circumstances of Yor's denial. He would later evaluate whether she may look differently on that incident. And whether he ought to, too. “In the case of a neutral to positive response, I will tell her. If she isn't receptive, I'll wait. I believe I can ask her to at least delay telling Garden if we think that useful.”

Handler shook her head. “More useful is for you to tell Yor Briar at the same time we also tell Garden. So after your conversation, send word and we will proceed accordingly.” Handler's mouth thinned ironically. “I'll tell them to put it towards our tab.”

Twilight ignored the dig and nodded.

Papa has to convince Boss Lady… Anya hadn’t said Strix. She’d said about the fact he was a spy. And then about the truth. He could pretend he misunderstood; after all he already had authorisation to tell Yor about WISE and that he was a spy.

That wasn't all that Anya meant, though.

Twilight sighed internally. Asked, “And briefing Yor Briar regarding the true nature of Operation Strix?”

He'd anticipated that slowly raised eyebrow. The slight tug down of Handler's mouth.

Slipping. Compromised.

But also Anya would know if he hadn't tried.

Soft.

“Do you think that advisable?” Handler asked slowly, deliberately.

“No.” He sighed again, this time for Handler's benefit. “But it's only a matter of time until I can't avoid it any longer. Getting ahead of that point may ultimately be beneficial.”

Handler stared at him long and focused. Finally she said evenly, “Not yet. From everything we know of her, it should still be some time before she begins to wonder about the mission itself, do you agree?”

Twilight hesitated. With Anya's comments, Yor may grow suspicious…

But ultimately the reality was: “Yes. And the revelations of WISE and my profession will likely keep her occupied for some time.”

“Let's not overwhelm her,” Handler said, not unkindly. “Her entire world has just been upended.”

Twilight could commiserate.

What's done is done.

Right?

Handler sagged forward, propping her chin on her palm, her elbow landing on the table. Her expression shifted to something more… sincere.

Alarm bells started ringing in Twilight's head.

“And Agent Twilight,” Handler said seriously. “How are you?”

Shit. Things must be really bad if she's asking that.

What's the right answer?

Grain of truth, Twilight. But not the one Handler will expect.

Twilight held her gaze steadily. “Drained,” he told her. “The last few days have been a challenge.” Understatement.

He also had more rest at the safehouse than he normally did; certainly more than he'd had for some time. All that seemed to accomplish was to serve as a reminder for his body of how tired he'd already been before Anya was kidnapped.

Handler studied him. Said quietly, “Mhm. We're agreed not to pull the plug on Strix as things currently stand. But, do you need a break?”

That —

Twilight narrowed his eyes. “Another reprimand regarding overwork from HQ?”

“They perhaps suggested that your slip was less to do with your being compromised and more to do with overwork,” Handler conceded testily. “Such is your reputation. You and I know better,” she said, jabbing a pen at him. “However I am willing to go along with their suggestion.”

Why?

Why would she do that?

What does she think —

If I'm not there, another WISE agent, or possibly agents, would be assigned to stay with Yor and Anya for the duration of my absence. Handler may not trust that I'm handing over everything I know about Yor; a worrying enough conjecture on its own. If she suspects I'm holding something back about Anya —

Ice skidded down his throat to freeze his stomach. He had thought Handler wouldn't push about Anya: firstly, why would she? There was no evidence as yet to suggest any reason to. Secondly, she had a soft spot for children.

Have I miscalculated?

Wait, Twilight.

There was another angle.

Following HQ's suggestion may prevent further questions about his compromise; may protect him — and Yor and Anya — from greater scrutiny.

What are Handler's goals?

What is the best choice?

“I don't think it's a good idea to leave either of them, and particularly Yor Briar, at this time. It's a sensitive moment for rebuilding trust, and leaving may substantially harm the progress I've made.” Such as it was. Aren't we fr— “As well as WISE's negotiations with Garden.” He paused, made it seem like hesitation. “If mollifying HQ would be best,” he said evenly, testing, “Perhaps a family holiday. Ostania's formation celebration is only three weeks away.”

“That may be the best compromise. I'll feel them out and update you.”

Handler had paused before agreeing. Barely, imperceptibly to nearly anyone but him. But Twilight knew her. He knew that pause was there. He'd have to analyse that later.

For now, he nodded.

“Oh,” Handler added as he was preparing to leave. “We're also in talks with Garden to trial team-ups. Someone from us, someone from them — Don't look so dismayed, Agent Twilight,” she said tartly. “It won't be you. We're discussing our best options now.” She tilted her head, snapped her fingers. “What is Yor Briar's code name, by the way? The Garden assassins we worked with had garden-based code names which I suppose shouldn't be surprising.” She looked at him. “So?”

“Yor Briar hasn't shared that information with me.”

Handler gave him a hard stare. “I see. Well, perhaps next time.”

“Yes.”

He remembered Yor's eyes — I don't understand why you don't seem to — any more — why you. I want to, to tell you —

Dismissed, Twilight tipped his hat to Handler. Back out on the street, he took himself to Anya's favourite cake vendor. He kept his body loose, his shoulders down, his spine straight but not rigid. He didn't sigh, frown, or hold his hands tight.

He did stand at the cake vendor, staring at the cakes unseeing, feigning indecision even though he'd known since he made the promise to Anya exactly what he'd get. He gestured with fake smile several other customers to go ahead of him.

Finally, he gave the vendor a self-deprecating smile, and asked for what he always did.

Which left just the bag of peanuts that he’d bartered for Anya’s silence. Twilight gave himself one breath to slump, before he pulled himself upright and started towards the grocer. Didn't Yor say she had also disposed of the milk so it wouldn't go off while they were away?

He ought to pick up a carton of that, too, he supposed.

 

---

---

 

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

For the sake of Operation Strix, the answer has to be whatever will resolve things between us.

 

---

 

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

For Yor’s sake, the answer must be no.

… And for Anya's sake?

 

---

---

 

Twilight sat beside Anya, still sleeping on the couch, his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, pressing his fingers into his forehead.

Yor's voice had been so quiet, Why did you need Anya to attend Eden College?

The conversation… had not gone well. His fault, again. He’d underestimated Yor. Had anticipated that now he had the go-ahead to tell her his job and what WISE was, that it would be at least another week before she asked a direct enough question that he wouldn’t be able to deflect it; but by which time either have something else to divert her with, or — less likely — he'd be able to tell her about Strix. That Yor’s first question since their return was essentially half of Strix’s mission brief…

“Goddamnit,” he muttered.

“Papa?” 

Twilight dropped his hand and looked at Anya, sitting up slowly. “I’m sorry, Anya, did I wake you?”

She didn’t seem to know, rubbing her fist into her eye as she yawned. Twilight reached out, put his hand on her head. Anya opened her eyes and smiled at him, bumping her head more fully into his hand.

“Did Papa convince Boss Lady?” 

“Ah.” Twilight gave her one more tousle and dropped his hand. “No. My… Boss Lady wants to wait.”

Anya clearly didn’t like this answer; truthfully, while an unsurprising outcome, neither did Twilight.

“Boss Lady’s stubborn,” Anya muttered.

Twilight huffed. “You could say that.”

The reality was, the true reason, came down to trust. WISE's trust of Garden; not Twilight's assessment of trusting Yor.

“Where’s Mama?”

“Ah. Mm. Yor didn’t want to leave you, Anya. But she needed to…” How do I explain to a six year old the concept of blowing off steam? Yor had been understandably upset he wouldn’t answer her question. Given how things were already strained — Twilight cleared those thoughts from his mind, just in case. Yor had also been visibly conflicted about leaving but whatever it was she did to release tension couldn’t be done at home. And after days cooped up in the safe house, it had been clear the temptation to get relief outside was too great to resist. He didn't blame her. As for Anya…

Mm.

“You know when you get very frustrated with your school work,” or me, “And you just have to,” throw a tantrum, “yell, stomp or… roll around? Well, grownups sometimes have to do something like that, too. It just… looks different.” Although for all he knew, that was exactly what Yor did. Though that seemed unlikely.

Then again, if someone had asked Twilight last week whether Yor could be an elite assassin, he’d have said that Yor had many strengths but could not skin a potato without skinning herself, so there was absolutely no way.

Of course now… Twilight released a slow breath. He had rarely deemed the word elite to be more aptly descriptive.

“Mama breaks trees,” Anya said.

“Pardon me?”

“When she needs to blow scream, she breaks trees.”

Twilight blinked down at Anya. Anya blinked up at him.

“I see.” Twilight shook off that visual with all its incumbent questions and focused on Anya. “How are you?”

“Fine!”

“Really…?” He had reported that to Handler and had previously observed she seemed unperturbed by disturbing events; at the safehouse, Anya had told both Yor and himself separately and together that she was fine. But even with Handler's hypothesis fresh in his mind, this seemed…

“Anya’s fine because Mama and Papa came to get her.” Oh. A lump lodged in his throat. “Anya knows Mama and Papa will always…” she trailed off, something seeming to occur to her, “Will always… Papa will…” she looked suddenly up at him with wide, tear filled eyes.

Alarmed, Twilight asked, “What’s the matter?” 

Anya heaved a gasping sob. “I don’t want to go back to the orphanage!”

“Why would you go back to the orphanage?!”

“Because Anya is a telly-path!”

Twilight could not see the connection between the two but Anya was working herself into a state. “Hey, hey, hey,” he reached out and lifted her into his lap. “Shhhh.” Anya was sobbing into her hands and Twilight had no idea what to do. The image of Yor, brushing Anya's bangs aside, kissing her forehead before they left the facility, filled his mind's eye — before he knew what he was doing, Twilight brushed her bangs aside and kissed her forehead.

Anya stopped.

So did Twilight.

Then Anya sniffed. With his hands still holding her face, he wiped his thumbs under her eyes. Then he reached for a tissue and held it to her nose as she blew. 

“Better?” he asked awkwardly. Anya nodded. “I’m not taking you to the orphanage,” he said firmly. “Why…” he was hesitant to ask — in what new way have I failed as a father? — but no, that information was vital. “Why would you think that?”

Anya gripped his hand in both of hers. Her two hands were so small that they barely covered half of his. “The science-ists,” she said quietly. “The science-ists who… who had Anya before. They told Anya… to keep it secret. Or…” Her eyes filled with tears again, and Twilight reached for another tissue. “Anya kept it secret. But before Papa adopted Anya. Anya was… was… Anya went with people before Papa. But they.” Her voice was barely a whisper, “They sent Anya back.”

His throat tight, Twilight said again, “I’m not going to take you to the orphanage.” There wasn’t anything he could do about those other families, but he had the names of those scientists. They’d signed multiple pages of her file, their names stamped elsewhere. If they weren’t already among the people he or Yor had — Anya blinked at him and he swept those thoughts from his mind to contemplate later. Focused on Anya's face, blotchy from tears. Quietly, “You'll always have a home.”

Watching Anya blow her nose again, something burned up his throat, into his nose, from deep in his belly. “Anya,” he murmured and she looked up from where she'd begun investigating whatever had come out of her nose into the tissue. “You will always have a home. Do you understand?”

Eyes wide on his face, Anya nodded seriously. “Yes, Papa.”

Twilight breathed out, absently rubbed a hand over his chest and forced his shoulders down. “Good. Good, Anya.” He gently tousled her hair, then he accepted her used tissues when she held them out to him. He gently passed another over her cheeks, wiping the tear tracks away.

“Are you going to get rid of Mama?” Anya asked when he turned to toss the tissues in the garbage pin.

That… was a more complicated question.

She added, “Are the Forgers done for?”

“Done for? Where do you learn these things?”

“Cartoons. And… and Papa’s thoughts.”

Goddamnit.

Twilight set that aside to contemplate later, too.

“I’m not going to get rid of Yor,” he said slowly. Though he supposed there was a chance Garden would want them to separate. He was fairly certain WISE could negotiate otherwise, unless there was a true existential threat or some deep conflict of interest. But the bigger issue was, “Yor may want to leave me, though. And I…” He had said otherwise to Handler but he did think divorce may would put the mission at risk. There had been a slim, minuscule chance, since the beginning, that marrying a civilian brought risk of discovery and/or risk of divorce. He’d originally intended to manipulate, coerce, blackmail or seduce whoever it was into staying in the relationship in the event that happened. But with Yor… “I won’t force her to stay. If she wants to go.” 

“Mama… would leave Anya?”

He couldn’t imagine that. And that was really the sticking point.

“No, Anya,” he said quietly. “Yor would never leave you. She would only leave me.”

And why… Why does my chest feel suddenly hollow? There was pressure around his temples, too, and a band around his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Stop that. Whatever else, he'd always known —

“There, there,” Anya said, reaching up to pat his chin. “Shhhh.”

Twilight drew a deep breath, then — gently — pushed her hand away. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. Then passed a hand down his face. I’m supposed to be comforting Anya, not… Whatever just happened.

“If Mama leaves Papa,” Anya said, heedless, decided, turning something sharp in his belly. “Anya will stay with Papa.”

“I'm touched to hear you say that,” he managed. “But that isn't something you need to worry about.” This was slipping out of his control; he needed — just a moment — to not be here. To pull himself together. But he couldn't go, couldn't, wouldn't leave Anya —

Then Anya declared, “Papa go away, Anya wants to play alone with Bond.” And she clambered out of his lap and all but fell onto Bond’s shaggy back where he suddenly stood beside the couch, waiting for her with wagging tail. 

Twilight hesitated, but Anya tumbled to the floor in a mess of laughter as Bond gently fell on top of her. Twilight knew when to take an opportunity presented to him and beat a swift retreat to the bathroom. 

Splashing water on his face, he wondered just how often Anya had done something like that… Given some diverting excuse, smoothing the way for people around her based on what she understood from their thoughts?

Too often. He suspected she’d done that too often. He could already count three times off the top of his head, just in the days since they’d returned from her retrieval. He would need to speak with Yor; ask if she had noticed similar. It wasn't Anya's responsibility to make things easier for the adults around her. Caring about them, yes; learning patience, compassion and ideally about human foibles, also yes. Take on the responsibility of managing the emotional states of the adults around her? No. Absolutely not. Down that path led the potential for a compounding trauma, and other psychic distress. He had several patients who suffered, only learning late in life that they weren't responsible for the emotions or actions of others around them, having to unlearn that overworked sense of responsibility, a pattern usually set in childhood with their caregivers. And from what Anya just told him about the other families that had adopted and abandoned her…

Goddamnit. Goddamnit. In addition to those traumas, for someone like Anya who could literally hear what people around were thinking and wanting, the risk of her taking on that responsibility doubled. Tripled.

Conflicting questions had jostled in his mind for days — about the utility of her abilities for spycraft, a question which had risen to his mind so frequently, he was having to fend off his own sense of moral responsibility. Where was the line? Did the line depend on the nature of her ability? Was her ability more akin to an allergy — against her wishes and resulting in a reduction in the quality of her life (degree varying)? Or was this simply something Anya could do — just as he could analyse situations, invent covers and create disguises, or how Yor could kill someone before their brain was even capable of processing what was happening, could assess emotional situations and share an observation or experience that alleviated awkwardness, tension or hurt…?

And otherwise, from his psychiatrist alter ego, wondering: was it possible Anya's abilities would actually lessen her trauma because she essentially knew what the other person was thinking, feeling, possibly better than the person themself? Or would her abilities compound it because she would constantly take on not only her own psychic and emotional burdens but also those of the people around her?

He suspected he knew the answer to the latter questions. And, ethically-speaking, he knew the answer to the former, too.

Or at least: by the ethics he would hope someone who was Anya's father would endeavour to live by.

Of course he was Anya's ostensible father and his ethical code operated rather differently by necessity of who he was.

Pressing his knuckles into the sink, Twilight stared hard at Anya's little toothbrush. Several of the bristles were bent out of shape; she was either chewing on it again or brushing too hard, and either way, he would need to replace it.

These aren't questions I'll be able to answer immediately, he reminded himself. And there are more immediate priorities to focus on.

Right.

He took himself to the kitchen and set the coffee going, ignoring the twinge in his mind that asked why he didn't make tea when that was actually what he wanted.

Coffee on, he retrieved the coded notes he'd started regarding guarding thoughts. He was fairly confident of a way to shield his own; Anya had made a comment about how she experienced his mind when they'd played cards. It was abstract, but he thought he had worked out what she meant. It was early the first time they played the game she invented, she had been winning, said something about how his mind didn't have so many words as it usually did.

And she'd been correct. It had been after that first rest at the safehouse, when he'd relieved Yor. The rest had made a difference; Yor had been right to insist. And Anya was cheerful, despite everything. And for all the complications of everything, Yor hadn't looked at him like an enemy, her expression had even softened after a moment when he'd insisted she go rest. And he'd managed it, managed to just… let go. And enjoy playing cards with Anya, for a little while at the start.

It had been short lived. Anya had been grumbling about his mind by the time they wrapped up: he'd started thinking more because her game was utterly nonsensical and he was trying to figure out the pattern.

So, from available data, he concluded that if he created what was, in essence, a wall of sound in his mind, Anya wouldn't be able to hear past it. There were downsides: the thought alone exhausted him. And he suspected it wouldn't be pleasant for Anya, especially considering she couldn't control when she listened. It was only a temporary, makeshift solution until he understood her abilities better and could otherwise train his mind.

How Yor might block Anya was more difficult. From what he gleaned overhearing Anya and Yor talk, Yor's mind read entirely differently to Anya. A mix of dialogue and images and something Anya called colour-feelings, and so the idea of a wall of sound in Yor's mind seemed like it would be unlikely to prove a workable option for her.

He was also uncomfortable with the prospect of offering Yor a temporary solution. Much better to come up with something that would undoubtedly require tweaking, but was essentially workable from the start.

Except.

He had no idea what it was like to think in images. Of course he could imagine things with near picture-perfect accuracy, but the way he actually thought with himself was as Anya said: words.

Was it possible to create a wall of images?

Could Yor layer her thoughts that way? It seemed likely, based on how she fought. There were times he had been absolutely certain in the facility during Anya's retrieval that Yor's entire attention was on him and thinking through what she'd found out about him and Anya: and she had also taken down three targets and kicked the feet out from under a fourth before dropping her stiletto unerringly through the target's ear canal.

On the note of thinking in images, his mind was providing detail on the flare of her dress as she dropped, the low burn in her eyes when she met his —

Stop, Twilight. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and drew to his feet as the coffee maker gave its last hiss.

What he ought to do was ask her. It would be difficult, he certainly had never tried to conceive of his own thinking before, but if he were to come up with a solution for her, then it was better to understand directly from the source, rather than attempting to decipher the observations of their well-meaning but taken to flights of fancy seve-six year old.

The difficulty was, he kept making mistakes. And Yor was understandably frustrated, wanting answers to questions he couldn't give her… whether by orders or his own stuck tongue.

Frustrated, Twilight, yes. And hurt. Don't forget that.

---

---

 

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

To the extent any friendship exists between us, it’s negated by you believing I am a man named Loid Forger, who does not exist.

 

---

 

— Aren’t we friends, Loid?

You’re the closest I’ve had in years. The closest since my childhood friends died — twice —

 

---

---

 

It was a couple of hours later that Yor's key sounded in the lock. Twilight was in the midst of feeding Bond, but he paused mid-step, and turned his head.

Yor stepped in the door.

For a brief moment, nothing had changed. Twilight had the same response he'd had for months on seeing Yor for the first time after an absence. The pink of her coat, the first glimpse of her near-ever-present smile, the good-natured light in her eyes. Or today, the fall of her hair as she turned to close the door.

Warmth suffused his chest swiftly and to such a degree he had the irrational sense that he filled, possibly glowed with it. A gently aching, pulsing glow: his heart throbbing in concert with the warmth. The ache had changed tenor as the months passed, starting as one thing, becoming something else, and now…

When, like this, he hadn't seen her eyes yet, a flicker of impatience — turn around turn around —

Yes —

Their eyes met and Twilight drew what felt like the first breath he'd taken all day, his chest expanding. The shining line of his want stung particularly sharply in that single beat of a moment that Yor looked at him and her face turned soft with greeting.

On the next blink, she remembered again — and so did he — and the ache in his chest fell into the renewed churning pit in his stomach.

Miscalculations. Compromise. Ploys and tactics and missions and secrets.

They paled.

He'd known for months his primary, greatest failure as a spy. It simply hadn't mattered before.

Twilight relented to the wet press of Bond nuzzling at his wrist and put the dish on the floor. Then he straightened, and once more met Yor's unhappy look.

What’s done is done. Right.

Mm.

He'd fallen in love.

 

---

 

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

I w—

Stop that.

Notes:

My very many thanks again and as always to @countrymint for reading over this chapter and discussing my worry points! And for also advising on the refresher summary at the top 💚💚💚!

Thanks for reading & I'd love to hear from you ☺️💐

Chapter 11

Summary:

The line had shifted between what had been mission critical and what had become critical to him, personally.

Notes:

Ahhhh! Thank you so much for being patient when this has taken me longer than I intended! I had a deadline for something irl after the last chapter was posted which wiped me out in ways I didn't expect! I'm going to aim to update more like every 2-3 weeks going forward, and I'll do my best to give a head's up in advance if there will be this sort of delay again!

At least I come bearing the longest chapter in the world! 😅🤲 I did try to find a way to split it, as I'd done with past chapters that got a bit unruly (!) but... well, things here are a bit too inextricably connected. Twilight, perhaps unsurprisingly, is less cooperative 😤

So with that in mind and in hand... here we gooo!

Despite things being stilted between himself and Yor, when Anya asked them to play her card game again until it was time for bed, they both agreed.

Anya won again, of course.

And commented rudely about Twilight’s thoughts and especially his losing: he would let it slide, this time, but if she continued to be a sore winner…

Then again, he recalled Anya's story of the supposedly test-aiding macaron, how she had won one in a game of Old Maid, and offered to share it with Damian, who had lost. That wasn't the sign of a sore winner.

Indeed, the opposite.

Which seemed to indicate Anya reserved her gloating for defeating him…

…

That was annoying.

Regardless, Anya had since gone to bed and Twilight now found himself in the kitchen with Yor, doing the dishes.

They'd done this regularly before Anya's kidnapping. Not quite, but nearly, a nightly routine. And something he had come to enjoy, something he had started deliberately making time for, ensuring time for, before.

Tonight…

“Sorry,” Twilight said, for the sixth time, when he went to hand Yor a plate to dry and instead banged her arm with it. Goddamnit. It had been like this the first day at the safehouse. Where the kitchen had once been a neutral-to-positive space for them together, it had become somewhere unknown and uncomfortable. At the safehouse, he had taken the gamble of suggesting Yor leave him to it; he suspected that wouldn’t be well received a second time. And it was a short-term patch at best.

Yor took the plate, and murmured something he barely heard — even with his hearing — but assumed was a form of acknowledging his apology. Except then she stepped on his foot (barely) when turning to put the plate away and the next second, somehow ended up in the entryway, apologising profusely and —

This couldn’t go on. Twilight shook his head, telling her it was fine and gesturing her to come back.

This will take time, he reminded himself as Yor stepped tentatively back into the kitchen space, coming to stand an extra fifteen centimetres from where she had been positioned before. The fact was: if I don’t resolve things with Yor, the mission could really be in jeopardy, regardless of what I told Handler. And Anya.

And also there was also the simple truth that it hurt. 

It hurt to be like this with Yor. That Yor was hurt. And. Twilight rolled his shoulders, setting his hands to work on the next dish. And, it hurt that she was upset with him. No matter how rational he knew it was for her to feel that way.

Gritting his teeth, Twilight focused on the final dishes. He couldn’t give her the answers she wanted —

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

Why do you need Anya to attend Eden College?

— but he could at least extend an olive branch with the information he’d been authorised to reveal. And he ought to before she returned to work at City Hall tomorrow where Garden may make contact and do it before he had the chance.

With the last dish done, Yor filled a glass of water and — now or never, Twilight — “Um,” Yor said, sounding strained, “Good night, Loid.”

“Wait, Yor…”

He nearly touched her wrist as she passed him — foolish. Yor flinched from him every time he reached for her. He knew better than to try. For all that he was certain it had been the right decision in the moment for both of them after retrieving Anya, he still should never have hugged her when she found him in the bathroom at the safehouse. It led to mistakes like this.

Sometimes he still felt the ghost of her hand stroking over the back of his neck, soothing. How solid, comforting, she was in his hold. Under his palms pressed to, his fingers spread across her lower back —

It opened something in him he couldn’t afford to open. Most especially when it was clear Yor didn’t want or welcome any more touch between them.

“Yor,” he said again, curling his hand into a fist at his side. “I'm sorry about earlier.”

She turned her head, and met his gaze. His heart squeezed at the look on her face.

“Can we sit and talk?” he tried.

Truthfully, he was exhausted. The prospect of another conversation, of all the conversations ahead of them assuming Yor remained receptive, left him weary. It was his fault; it had been almost all right at the start. But the last couple of days, he kept saying the wrong things, telling her the right things but in the wrong ways, trying to stop her from asking questions he couldn’t answer and in the process, forgetting that she might have things to say and that he needed to give her the space to say them, even if he didn't want to listen.

No, that wasn't it. He wanted to listen. He wanted to know. And that actually was the problem. The line had shifted between what had been mission critical and what had become critical to him, personally. There had been nearly nothing mission critical about Yor previously; her general satisfaction in their fake marriage and her friendship with Melinda Desmond were essentially it. But now — 

What is Yor Briar's code name, by the way?

He said quietly, allowing her to hear some of his weariness, “Please.”

Yor drew a deep breath. “You… You want to talk?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, the hurt skepticism in her voice twisted in his stomach painfully.

She was watching him closely, keen eyes focused on his face. Twilight swallowed. Grain of truth, Twilight. You always want time with Yor.

He nodded. “Yes. I do.”

He bore her scrutiny, held himself steady.

Finally Yor nodded reluctantly. It was a relief, though Twilight had expected her to agree in the end.

So why did he find himself asking, “Do you want tea?”

He kept his wince to himself as Yor looked at him with some confusion. “Is this the right ti…” she trailed off, searching his face, his eyes, her gaze darted down to his hands — What are my hands doing? Nothing strange, he confirmed. And so nothing revealing, surely? Yet her eyes eased at the edges when she looked back up at him and — Is she taking pity on me…?! 

She said politely, “Tea would be nice, thank you.”

That was another part of the problem. Yor saw too much of him. He had been certain his face was neutral — tested his memory for what his facial muscles had been doing and couldn't find a single thing giving him away. She saw something nonetheless.

Maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe Yor also wants a few minutes to gather her thoughts.

That seemed… unlikely. But it wasn't as though their relationship currently was such that he could simply ask her out right. There wasn't any further point in thinking about this.

He took himself to the kitchen and set about making the herbal tea she favoured this time of night. And it was a bit of a liberty but Twilight made himself a cup of same.

Spiced apple and chamomile wafted up to him. Something eased down his back.

He set her tea on the coffee table in front of her but Yor picked it up immediately, wrapping both hands around the mug, ignoring Twilight's startled noise of protest. The mug would still be so hot — did he have burn cream in the first aid kit? Possibly not in the generic one in the bathroom (oversight; he made note to rectify that, Anya would undoubtedly burn herself at some point) but in his room, his personal —

“Loid,” Yor called softly, a worried look on her face. And she raised a hand, showing she had pulled her sleeve forward to protect her palm before picking up the mug. That same hand, he remembered, had gauze wrapped around her palm, some injury she sustained while he’d been at WISE. The gauze would also offer some limited protection but — She told him quietly, “But I… I also have high heat tolerance.”

“I… see,” he managed. 

They were in his mouth again, the questions.

And. The more he knew, the more he ought to report. The obvious corollary being that the less he knew, the less he had to report.

“I want to explain to you who WISE is,” he began, and Yor shifted in her seat, sitting taller, her eyes sharpening on his face. “And what my profession really is.”

Something passed over her face, a dip of her brow, a pull of her teeth on her lip — frustration or upset that he wasn’t answering the questions she had already asked? But Yor remained… Yor. Her features opened to him curiously, patiently, a little cautiously, her spine straight with the mug still clasped in her hands now resting in her lap. 

All she said was, “Okay.”

The WISE part was relatively straight forward; he'd given a similar speech a handful of times before when inducting transfers and new recruits. “WISE is an acronym,” he said, pitching his voice to neutral tones. “It stands for Westalian Intelligence Service's Eastern-focused Division.” Twilight ignored Yor's sharp intake of breath, the way her face drained of some colour. “Our mission is exactly as I told you on Friday morning. We work to maintain and secure peace between Ostania and Westalis for the prevention of war. We do that through covert means.”

“So you're a s… a sp…”

“A spy, yes.”

Yor stared at him. Twilight held her gaze, keeping his expression neutral, forcing his muscles to remain at ease even as she simply continued to stare at him, not saying a word. He had previously thought he could read Yor for the most part, her emotions if not her reasons — the revelation about her profession threw that certainty into some doubt, given time he would recalibrate. But from his observation across the last few days, it ultimately seemed that unlike him, Yor remained… herself. He had observed that even in the midst of retrieving Anya: Yor never became anyone other than Yor.

But her expression now… He mentally filed through various of her expressions over the months they'd known one another and he couldn't find its match. 

What is she thinking?

“You… you did tell me not to trust you,” she said faintly, finally. “You… said that to me twice. To doubt you. And. Not to trust you.”

“I did,” Twilight affirmed. 

Foolish, on his part. He’d reviewed those comments that same day after Yor had left to contact Garden, sitting back beside Anya’s pillow and watching the rise and fall of Anya’s chest as she snored faintly, still deeply asleep. He could only put those particular slips down to exhaustion and that unavoidable, pervasive, heartsore feeling, shared with Yor after reading together about what had happened, what had been done, to Anya.

More foolish, though, that he didn’t regret warning her. For all his stomach, his lungs, tightened all over again, hearing Yor repeat it. For all a pain kicked up in his left temple, reminiscent of Handler’s knuckle drilling in during his training.

Yor drew a breath. Quietly, “And… Garden… knew about WISE?”

“Yes. Garden was aware of WISE and what WISE is, what WISE does, when they agreed to work with us.”

Yor was silent again, her expression turned inward as it did when she was contemplating something. At least he could still read that. Then her eyes trained again on him, sharp and focused, a determined light in her eyes that he recognised, something electric skimming down his spine. Her brow dipped. Her lips thinned and he half expected her hands to raise in fists, the way she did when she resolved to do something —

“I’m probably being…” she trailed away, “You, you said not… And you're a-a spy… But. I’ve. Thought so much these last few days,” she said, an exhaustion under her voice that Twilight understood viscerally. Her gaze dropped to the side, frown deepening. “I-I chose,” she said forcefully, seeming more to herself than to him. She raised her eyes to his once more. “And I… don’t… Anya told me, you told me, that you trust me. Even knowing… Knowing what I do. Who I. Am. That I lied.” One of her hands slipped free from around her mug, did tighten into a fist, pumped once beside her thigh — She whispered, “I want to trust you instead. I. Loid, I choose to trust you instead.”

As a spy, he should be gratified. And part of him was.

Twilight’s mind snagged on Loid.

He hadn’t ever conceived of Loid Forger as a separate entity; just as with all his covers, Loid was a role that he played. No more, no less. Whatever feelings Loid displayed that Twilight felt, he recognised them and managed them separately as part of himself. The best lies — and every role was simply an elaborate lie — had grains of truth. Loid Forger had necessarily been the most elaborate — and there were limits, as with anything. However utilising his own fond feelings made it easier to play a family man. As equally as his irritation or stress or frustration came from truth: and, he had come to realise, helped sell the role in different ways.

But the role of Loid Forger ultimately remained akin to a game of shadows. He himself was the operator, the light source and the shadow casting apparatus all at once: choosing the brightness level, the shapes, and casting the shadow shapes that made up Loid Forger against the wall that was the mission for his targets to see.

Yet for the span of time between Yor’s declaration and when she telegraphed she wanted to speak again, Twilight had the inexplicable sense that that man, Loid Forger, stood between himself and Yor. Loid was a role to him, select shadows of Twilight’s self and the demands of his role within the demands of the mission’s set social circle and his fabricated family. But Loid Forger had been, was, a person to Yor — an important person to Yor — aren’t we friends, Loid? 

— And who was Twilight to Yor?

She shifted her weight, clearly discomfited by his silence.

Loid, I choose to trust you instead —

As he had too many times these last few days, he found himself without words. He resisted gritting his teeth, not wanting Yor — Yor, who saw too much — to think it was about her when his frustration was with himself. 

Instead, he did all he could. Twilight met her eyes, held her gaze, and nodded.

She was still frowning at him a little, was not wholly put at ease. But when she spoke, she sounded wary but mostly curious, “So are you… are you an Ostanian turncoat or… or from…?”

“I am originally from Westalis,” he said — why had his voice gone quiet?

Yor tipped her head to one side. “Do you miss home?”

That was her question? His brain stalled.

She means Westalis, Twilight.

He smoothed his hands over his thighs. Resisted the baffling urge to pick up his mug to inhale the tea's steam. Instead he breathed out slowly, “No.”

“How long has it been since you —”

“There are wiser questions than that,” he said automatically, voice pitched to the cold neutral that could shut down further querying.

Yor lurched back, hurt all over her face. His stomach cramped.

“I'm sorry,” he said, inflecting his voice with as much sincere remorse as he could bring himself to share. Honestly, “That was reflexive.” His own counter-interrogation training and a series of nosy recruits intent on prying questions… Yor's eyebrows twitched briefly into a frown, her mouth tugging down and staying that way, but before she could ask what he meant by that, he answered the question he had interrupted, “I haven't been home in the way you mean since long before I was recruited by WISE. And so no. I don't miss… Westalis.”

This troubled her for some reason. 

She hesitated. Then said carefully, “That isn't what I was going to ask.”

It wasn't? How had he guessed wrong?

Yor went on in the same tone, saying, "I was going to ask how long since you joined WISE?"

“I can't tell you that,” he said, gentler, but still a bit unsettled by his error — off Yor's look, he added, “In this case I mean that literally. I've been trained not to remember for my own protection and to obscure WISE's recruitment practices. The nearest I can tell you is longer than ten years, probably fewer than fifteen.” He could work it back to a specific year and likely the specific date and time fairly easily, but he'd trained himself out of that impulse, too.

Something crossed Yor's features; something like recognition, or commiseration. Then she said softly, “My… my mentor started training me when I was fourteen.”

Twilight stilled. “Yor…”

He reviewed Yor's age, Yuri's age, at the time of their parents' death. What the records had shown for how they'd survived without guardians — he'd known they hadn't had any other relatives, that Yor had become the primary caregiver.

Separately, he'd known, he'd known very well, what exactly the state of the war was at that same point. He was more familiar with its immediate impacts on Westalis of course, however he could speculate what the rural villages of Ostania were like and was confident of his assessment given his knowledge of Ostania. Eastern Nielsburg wasn't a prosperous village presently, though it wasn't destitute either. When the Briar parents passed away, after many years at war, it was unlikely the Ostanian central government had been paying outlying villages much attention unless they were under direct threat of occupation.

He was under no illusions about what desperate people did to survive. Knew equally well how underworld elements ensured their own survival.

Garden recruited young, then. Not as young as other underworld circles; pickpocketing operations, for instance, which almost exclusively used street urchins. Twilight was aware how young those could go. He himself had been on the lower side, by WISE's recruitment standards. But WISE occasionally went lower; he had trained one or two rookies who were likely younger than he had been. He'd heard of others. As with any intelligence operation, WISE didn't rely solely on young adults, recruiting across all age brackets if it would benefit.

He had always understood that Yor had sacrificed in order to provide for, to protect, Yuri. It was something he had admired about her from the very start. He’d also sometimes wondered whether she considered at all her own survival.

Sitting with Yor now, Twilight studied her. Studied her open face turned to him. The endurance in her eyes. The soft, resigned smile on her lips. The way she sipped her tea, then set it on the table. Her hands clasping each other. Waiting patiently for him to say something.

It had been a puzzle, for him, the last few days, to work out how he could possibly have overlooked living in close quarters with an elite assassin. How — with all the spy techniques of observation at his disposal, with all the hyper aware focus infatuation and then love endowed — he might have missed the signs.

The question he'd kept asking, though: What were the signs?

She was skilled with blades and terrible at cooking. He had overlooked that. If not for cooking, why could she use knives? But he never bothered to linger on the question. It somehow simply fit the abiding idiosyncrasy of Yor.

Something of a, to his mind then, random preoccupation with forms of death. The number of misunderstandings they'd had along those lines… but, he reasoned, those who grew up with war had a different outlook, had experienced things no one ought to have. That manifested differently in different people. Perhaps this had simply been Yor’s way.

How easily she had accepted ‘concussive therapy’ as something that could exist. … That one he could never fully reckon — and had increasingly become a problem, as she never forgot it.

Her incredible strength and stamina; that she could run faster for a span of time than the average vehicle moving through Berlint streets. Anya had once told him, fantastically, of Yor being hit by a car and the car coming off the worse. He’d assumed that had been something in her cartoons, perhaps translated into a dream that she confused for reality; after his fight with Yuri Briar, he’d wondered once or twice whether it were possible. After their time at the facility, he was convinced of it. And, he noted, owed Anya an apology.

Those were not insubstantial things by any means. But when weighed against both their unspoken agreement to respect one another’s privacy, and especially weighed against everything else he knew of Yor… 

An excellent mother and a conscientious partner. Cautious and considerate of others. Accepting, warm, prone to social anxiety. Emotional insight far beyond her apparent life experience. Naive and sometimes too credulous for her own good (though he himself had benefited from it frequently.) Low self worth (though improving.) A nearly shocking lack of generalised knowledge (which again, had benefited him.) Earnest almost to a fault, a strong sense of justice, of right and wrong. Hard working. Compassionate. Good-natured. Persistent. Generous, kind. Dedicated, sweet, lovely, protective, safe. 

The one thing he couldn’t make sense of, between what he knew of Yor from before and what he was better understanding now, was her seeming complete comfort with objectively high levels of carnage. His experience of war had inured him. But Yor…?

Regardless, it was starting to make more sense, how he'd missed the signs. Yor had only ever been herself. Contract killing, from that young age, would fold into her identity, incorporate into her sense of self. Her body, her mind, her emotional regulation, her understanding of the world, though never indelibly set at any age, would still have been rapidly, foundationally, developing at fourteen. All would have already been impacted by the loss of her parents and other material stressors of the war. How she moved through the world — her social anxiety and awkwardness made more sense. A secret of that magnitude, combined with her responsibility for Yuri, the power literally over life and death that her training would give her, from fourteen…

A tender pink had spread over the rounds of her cheeks, light shone off the slight overbrightness of her eyes. She was so unbearably lovely, unbearably stalwart. Twilight clenched his hands to stop himself from reaching for her. He wanted to… soothe, he supposed, to brush her hair behind her ear, cup her cheek, take her hand. If he thought she would welcome it, he would sit beside her and… Perhaps he might extend his arms, make her the offer she had made him, the comfort of another hug.

She wouldn't welcome it.

What had happened in the bathroom at the safehouse had been errant. Yor had made it clear since then. Whenever her entire body tensed, each recoil, the time she had taken multiple steps back from him, earlier tonight when she launched herself several feet away.

Nor could he soothe her as a partner — as a true partner. With the intimate understanding engendered through that reciprocal feeling, and — Aren't we friends, Loid — Mm. Yes. And a deep friendship. That… earned trust (Loid, I choose to trust you instead — ) and trust in care.

To know, and be known.

Twilight had accepted loving Yor at arm’s length before: there was always going to be an imbalance, that he could get to know her and she would never really know him. He wasn't for her to know, after all; he wasn't for anyone to know. He shifted in his seat. Pressed his hands into his thighs. Realising they weren’t as far from one another as he'd thought — That imbalance may be in the process of being redressed, in learning these truths of one another, however in practice, that didn't matter.

He’d need to find the words, the types of words he would have used before. As though the world hadn’t shifted beneath his feet.

He was Twilight. He had navigated situations far more complex, situations which would otherwise have been lethal. Compared with that… Continuing to compartmentalise his unrequited feelings for a woman as extraordinary as Yor? He had decided some time ago it was for the better that his feelings weren't returned. Nothing had changed there, either. 

Then, focus, Twilight.

Mm.

“Yor,” he murmured again. “I told you once that you were strong. I hadn’t understood then just how strong you are.”

“Oh,” Yor whispered, shifting her weight again and looking aside uncomfortably. Am I wrong ag— “My training did include a lot of muscle work—“

“No,” Twilight interrupted, his throat thick. “I don't dispute that you're physically strong. I was referring to your spirit. And… your heart. But I'm also,” he cleared his throat. “I'm sorry you had to be so strong.”

Yor's eyes rounded, filled with tears. “Loid…”

In lieu of wiping the spill down her cheek himself he found the tissue box and extended it to her.

As Yor blew her nose, Twilight considered. Connection. That was what she wanted. She had told him. He was making things more complicated than they needed to be.

“I want to know more about you, and your history,” he admitted quietly, and something twisted painfully in his chest at the sound she made, like relief and longing. Aren't we— He kept his grimace to himself when she peered at him over her tissue. “But first, I want to explain something you suggested about me the other day.” Her breath caught, her throat flushed, and Twilight's mouth went dry. Aren't we friends, Loid? No. Not that. He braced for her disappointment. “You implied that I had stopped caring about you —” Her breath stuttered, her face turning red, “— That isn't the case.” I care. A great deal. “However that's why…” He drew a breath. “I want you to understand.” Love at arm’s length — “Anything I learn about you now, about your profession, I have to report to WISE.”

Yor straightened. Her hands dropped. Her expression washed to dumbfounded.

Twilight swallowed against a swell of regret, forcing it down.

Yor blinked rapidly and passed her tissue under her nose. Then, meeting his gaze once more, finally whispered, “B-because you’re a spy.”

“Yes.” Twilight nodded. “I didn’t need to do that before. When I thought you were a civil servant, what I learned about you was largely inconsequential to WISE. It was only important to me.” What are you doing — “That is, it was between you and me. That isn't the case any longer.”

“Oh,” she breathed. 

“I'm certain Garden will want you to report on me.” He forced himself to do it: passed a hand down the back of his head, peered at her from under his fringe disarmingly. Watched queasily as it worked. “While I understood that you would need to report to them when I told you everything I have, there are one or two particulars I hope you'll keep between us. My unofficial motivation, for instance. However the rest I am, and was, prepared for them to know. And so,” He hesitated. “I didn't, I don't, want you to tell me anything you may not want in WISE's files.”

“I hadn't… No, the Shop— that is, my, um, my boss. When he told me about Anya's kidnapping, he had started to suspect you, that is, L-Loid… because of your, his? That is, Loid's? Interest in the National Unity Party —” 

It was unlikely Yor would make the connection between the Desmonds and Loid’s interest in the NUP, but Twilight had underestimated her before. He needed to divert.

“That is very astute of your boss. And honestly it's a relief.”

“What? What do you mean?!”

“If Garden is suspicious of anyone with far-right authoritarian leanings, it speaks highly of their values.”

“Oh. Well. Yes.”

She said that as though it ought to be obvious. Something in his chest wobbled: had Yor truly never considered that an organisation of assassins who recruited adolescents might be themselves suspect…? Knowing the force of Yor’s moral compass, he couldn’t imagine her remaining with Garden had she caught a whiff of anything she didn’t agree with, but surely she had to have asked the question? Had she never wondered at all?

Who was her mentor, that she trusted him so absolutely?

Twilight studied her, how her expression remained open. In fact, had remained open, nearly the entire time since they'd confronted one another before Anya's retrieval.

What does that mean?

Yor ripped the tissue in her lap. “So… You'll have to tell WISE… about, me?”

There was something to the way she said me that he would evaluate later. Twilight answered, “They already know the basics, of course. And now about Garden, your profession. They witnessed first hand the evidence of your skill. But yes, anything else you tell me, I am expected to report.”

Passive language, Twilight?

Yor didn't appear to notice it. “I see…” She sat staring at their coffee table for a few beats. Then gave herself a shake, lifting her eyes again to his. “Then I suppose… You married me for, for cover?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t… been married before?”

Hm?

“No.”

Something like relief seemed to flicker over her features, followed swiftly by something that looked like guilt, though Twilight couldn’t make head nor tails of that as a response. Then Yor shook herself. Swallowed. Bit her lip. “I… married you for cover, too,” she confessed quietly.

“Mm,” Twilight agreed. He had deduced that, but it was useful to have it confirmed that the cover went beyond her concern that she could have come under scrutiny as a single woman in her late twenties.

“Does that bother you?” she whispered.

Twilight blinked. “That you married me for cover?”

Yor nodded miserably. Twilight frowned. Huh. Why would it? Still, he honoured her question, saying firmly, “No.”

“Oh.” Yor twiddled her fingers, the tissue shredding further.

“Does it… bother you?” he asked.

She stole a glance at him from under her eyelashes. “Yes,” she breathed. “Sort of. I've felt like I was using you and Anya. Or. I — I thought I was using you…”

“Ah…” Yor didn’t use the word guilt but the emotion was all around her. If anyone ought to feel guilty, it was him. And he… he did. He had remorse. Although perhaps more for the future, than necessarily for what they'd been sharing as a family so far. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Twilight said slowly, “Anya feels nothing but your care for her. And remember, Yor, she knew exactly why you agreed to our arrangement. She also knew your profession. She has never doubted you. And you don't have to worry about me.”

With a small frown, Yor began, “Why n…”

Don't ask me that.

— Aren't we friends, Loid?

It seemed Yor did change her mind. “I… suppose that’s true. About Anya.” Anya? Only Anya? Determination captured her expression once more. “But I’ll decide,” she said quietly, “Whether I’ll worry about you.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Yor —”

“You told me not to trust you,” she said lowly, her voice a little shaky for all that determination, “But I choose to trust you anyway. You’re telling me not to worry about you, but Loid,” her frown deepened, something protective about it, unmistakably directed at him, for him. “I. I choose to worry about you anyway.”

Trusting him, he could sort of understood, within and because of the morass their situation had become. But. She wanted to worry about him…? That made no sense. He’d been left confounded more times than he could count since adopting Anya, since fake marrying Yor, and yet this declaration that she was choosing to worry about him? About how her actions might affect him?

There were things people may do for survival that he did not judge mercifully, even understanding their circumstances; a mutually beneficial agreement — even if all motives weren’t transparent at the time — was not one of those things.

And — he grimaced internally. Yor saying things like that… His heart throbbed, urged him to lean, compelled him to slide forward in his seat. It took more willpower than it should to keep himself where he was, to resist that pull to draw closer to her.

He relented, marginally, leaning forward to take up his own mug of tea, with the secondary benefit that the action bought him time. He didn’t particularly taste the tea as he sipped; inhaling though… 

Sweet chamomile swirled, the memory of the field of flowers blurring together with his sense of Yor. Was that what confounded him? She stated she intended to worry about him — chose to worry about him, and the tight knot in his stomach loosened. And his mind… It didn’t go slow exactly, but the velocity of thought, of calculation… The ambient urgency fled.

She put him at ease.

He couldn’t — he shouldn’t — allow that currently. Were the situation different, perhaps, for a few moments anyway, but as things stood, the mistakes he'd already made over the last few days… And he had only just recommitted to compartmentalising —

I choose to worry about you anyway.

Twilight breathed deeply. Closed his eyes for the length of time he took another sip, as he inhaled the tea’s perfume. The field. Yor. The pull of her arms around his back. The weight of her head resting on his shoulder, her hair brushing his neck. For some reason, he also remembered Yor threatening people she thought were SSS agents on his- no, on Loid's behalf — and why think of that, of all things? Now, of all times?

Loid, I choose —

He let out his breath slowly. Leaned forward to set the mug down. As he drew himself back into his seat, Twilight said quietly, “Understood, Yor.”

Her expression held for another moment before she nodded, tension falling from her shoulders as she breathed out an obvious sigh of relief. He hadn't noticed that the cycle of her breathing had increased, but he did now, as she worked to bring it back down. He regretted, for a moment, having already set aside his mug as he couldn't hide the way his hand clenched on his thigh to keep from reaching for her fisted hand.

He instead turned his focus inward; used the same time she took to pull himself back together.

He was ready when Yor finally asked a little thickly, “And what about Anya? That’s why you adopted her?”

It struck him, that her next question wasn't whether he felt badly marrying her, using her, for his cover. That she didn’t ask him to worry about her was more expected.

“Anya is also part of my cover,” he confirmed slowly. Twilight sighed. “But Yor, I'm sorry, I don't have authorisation to tell you more than that.” I don't have authorisation to tell you that much.

Yor's expression darkened; but he could also see she understood that. Orders from a superior and the continuation of secrets kept because of the orders of their superiors. She had said so herself to Anya that morning. If he had asked her his questions, he would undoubtedly also come to some line she couldn't cross.

“All right,” she said, crushing the shredded remnants of her tissue in her hand. “Can you at least — Do you, do you c—” she cut herself off with a vigorous shake of her head. “Is Anya safe?”

Twilight stared at Yor for an extended moment, the knot in his stomach tightening again, his innards twisting. He blinked slowly, then closed his eyes entirely, tipped his head back as he breathed out. 

A rookie mistake he shouldn't have allowed: always watch your target.

Yor wasn't a target.

Open your eyes, Twilight.

With a deep breath, he dropped his head, met Yor's eyes once more. “I don't have an easy answer for that question. But Anya is…”

Of course Anya wasn’t safe. But that apparently had less to do with him — or with Yor — than he’d have ever predicted. Against all odds, Anya’s vulnerability primarily had to do with Anya herself. 

Yor knew that.

So what is Yor’s actual question?

Yor was still frowning at him, her mouth pulled into an unhappy moue.

What is she really asking me?

She was studying his face —

Ah. 

Hm.

“In the hours after I first adopted Anya,” he began again, slowly. The words were there, in his mind and in his mouth, and he didn’t want to lose them. “She was only important to me as she related to my mission success —” Yor inhaled sharply, Twilight continued on unheeding, “However, after those first few hours, I decided Anya wasn’t needed for my—cover.”

Confounded, Yor blinked, tilted her head. “What? How is…? What do you mean?”

“I told you the other night that something happened after I adopted Anya which upset her.” He drew a slow breath, readied himself; he'd avoided specifics last time because he knew Yor would be rightfully angry. “The same day I adopted her, I went briefly to meet with an informant, leaving her alone in the apartment. A different one to where we now live. While I was gone, she was kidnapped by one of my enemies.”

“Loid! She — your enem— Kidnapped ?!”

“I retrieved her.” Twilight opted not to give excuses. “When I dealt with the kidnapper, I also decided to find another way to complete my mission. One that didn’t involve a child. Because it… No, the mission wasn't too dangerous. Not exactly. I was too dangerous: being connected to me was too dangerous for a small child.” 

A series of complex emotions moved over Yor's face: he could read each of these, understand each of these, easily, being as they were mirrors of his own at the time. Mirror to his own, reiteratively across the months since the mission began. Since he had chosen to bring Anya home.

Once Yor's breathing again returned more closely to baseline, he went on, “I didn’t look like myself when I saved her —” and off Yor's confused look, he clarified, “I was in disguise. I have some skill at it. In my disguise, I sent her to find police who would help her and look after her. Who would take better care of her than…” Twilight cleared his throat. “Of course now I realise she must have known it was me by reading my thoughts. But at the time, I thought she had gone. I watched her run in the direction of the police station. So I went to deal with her kidnapper, my enemy.” He breathed out slowly. “Afterwards, walking home when I was no longer disguised, there she was. Waiting. For me.” 

A soft sound left Yor’s throat, a change moved through her whole body as she listened, as she watched him.

“Anya asked…” He cleared his throat. “She asked to go home. To come home. With me.”

Twilight passed his fingers under his eyes, annoyed when he pulled them away to find damp on his fingertips. Dashed the damp away, he rallied himself to meet Yor's eyes again.

Whatever he had anticipated, Yor didn’t look angry or confused.

Instead, she hummed, a knowing look in her eyes, smile playing around her lips. “An unstoppable force,” Yor murmured.

Which makes you the immovable object —

“Oi,” Twilight protested the implication, but before he could say more, Yor asked him quietly, “Anya is too easy to love, isn't she?”

“I… suppose you could… Care for —” He sighed. “Yes.”

Yor hummed again. I choose, she had said. Her eyes were gentle with recognition.

Her eyes were so beautiful. He didn't lend credence to the idea that eyes were the windows to the soul, though eyes gave a great deal away if one knew how to look; that understanding was incredibly useful for a spy. And Yor's eyes — 

The aching glow of warmth that was his love for her pulsed, spread — Twilight smoothed a hand against his solar plexus.

Heedless, Yor said slowly, “So… you said you had decided you were too dangerous.” There was some odd emphasis Yor had put on the third you that Twilight couldn't parse.

Yor went on, “You sent her away. And then Anya came back and asked to stay with you and… and you let her.”

After a short pause, “Yes,” Twilight said thickly.

“I see,” Yor said softly.

Did she? Because he didn't.

No: that wasn't right. Was it? 

Something like understanding itched at the edge of his mind… 

If you leave me again, I'll cry —

A strangled sound left his throat.

“Loid?” Yor asked, startled.

“I just realised that Anya must have read my mind when she asked to come home. The way she said it…” If you leave me again, I’ll cry — 

He passed a hand down his face, remembered with new eyes their very first meeting — muttering to himself, “Well, fuck.” The crossword. This one’s my favourite, pointing at the Spy Wars cartoon. He couldn't remember exactly what he'd been thinking at the orphanage but: “She must have known I was a spy from the very, very start.”

Yor's eyes had widened when he cursed — have I never cursed in front of her? Possibly not; Loid Forger wasn't one for cursing regularly; Loid Forger hadn’t done the —

Yor laughed, her hand flying to her mouth.

She closed her eyes, what a shame, but the sound was —

Twilight cleared his throat, ignoring the way his stomach tightened pleasantly, the way his cheeks warmed, the glow in his chest — Stay contained.

Despite himself, he also chuckled when Yor straightened in alarm, dropped her hand and gasped, “She must have known about me from the start, too!”

“Mhm,” Twilight agreed, now understanding Yor's amusement, since he, too, was more amused by that than he really ought to be. “And if I remember correctly,” which he did, “She was the one who encouraged us to speak further.”

“Oh you're right! After you said you thought I was,” she faltered. Very pretty. Mm. Blushing, Yor shook herself, rallied, went on, “Af-after that, I'd been planning to ask you to pose as my date, but then I thought you were married and that your wife would kill me for considering it —” Twilight stopped himself from frowning but murder for that seemed a little excessive — “And then almost right away, Anya started saying she missed her Mama and you told me she had passed away!” Yor's eyes fell on him once more, round and bright and full of shock and humour: “Fuck,” she echoed, a mirthful light in her eyes, and she laughed again.

He thought he’d come to terms with the irrationality of love. That so simple a joke would strike him as so adorable. The way her laughter simultaneously soothed and warmed him. But. Containment breached. He knew his face was giving him away, if Yor had wanted to see it. He felt the muscles around his eyes loosen, the tension between his eyebrows melt, the way his smile was soft.

Her pleasure shouldn’t affect him so profoundly and yet each time she smiled, laughed, it always did but especially these last days, it had lifted pressure from his shoulders, even in the worst hours. And now. When things between them seemed substantially less tenuous than they had been just hours ago. Twilight breathed in, and looked, and listened, his fill. 

Yor bounced in her seat, gave a thoughtful hum, looking at him once more as he cleared his expression, just in case. “She’s a quick thinker, isn’t she?”

“She is.” More than he had anticipated or previously allowed, despite, he was beginning to suspect, evidence he'd overlooked. “Actually,” Twilight said, remembering, “That is something I wanted to ask you about. If and how often you've noticed Anya interceding in things, perhaps… smoothing the way for things, likely due to what she's read in your or someone else's mind… I ask because I realised I can think of three times she did it just in the last few days.”

“Oh no,” Yor breathed, sobering. “She shouldn't be doing that.”

“No,” Twilight agreed. “I don't want her taking on responsibility for the adults around her.”

“Of course not,” Yor said, looking troubled. He'd been fairly certain she would agree, but a tight knot loosened in his belly nonetheless. “But how…” Yor bit her lip. “Loid,” she said softly, “I was wondering… Have you… have you asked her whether she wants to read minds?”

Twilight went still. He'd turned his attention entirely onto the implications of Anya's abilities, on trying to find ways of managing the complications of them. He hadn't considered Anya's experience of them. How had he missed that? Is that even something she can understand…? She first showed signs, according to her lab records, around the time memory started forming in the way that would follow her consciously through life. She would never have spent any time moving through the world without the ability in a way she could remember —

“No,” he murmured. Admitted, “It never occurred to me.”

“I've been thinking about it,” Yor said slowly, “Ever since you said we have to manage it. And I… respectfully Loid, I don't think that's right. You don't. You don't manage loved ones. Not unless they ask you to. You…” She took a deep breath, “You love them.”

Children are resilient, Handler had told him, When they're in loving homes.

“I didn't mean —”

Yor shook her head and he stopped. “I know you didn't mean it in a bad way,” she said kindly. “And of course, Anya is a very young child and is our responsibility. Her, her ability to read minds is…” Her eyes brightened with upset, and a resonant lump lodged in his throat. Yor's voice was rough, “It isn't something… I didn't know it was possible. But it's something Anya does. It seems… seems like she does it the way you and I breathe. It isn't. It isn't like anything else. At least nothing that I- can think of. And I don't know the answer — you're right, of course, to some degree that, that something needs managing,” though as she said the word, her nose twitched and her brow wrinkled, “But I don't think that that word, or maybe that mentality? Can be our… it can't, shouldn’t be the way we approach this.”

What's done is done. That's essentially what the phrase meant, wasn't it? Something happened, and there was only the response left: managing as best possible what came next.

What did a spy do, but try to orchestrate people, situations, such that they were managed in his favour? And as long as Anya had access to his mind, she would never understand why she shouldn’t do the same.

You don't manage loved ones.

Perhaps that was where everything was going sideways.

“What do you suggest?” Twilight asked quietly. 

Yor squeezed her hands together. “I'm not sure,” she said, voice trembling. “I think… I think it's okay for us to try to find ways to… guard our thoughts. It's not her fault she invades our privacy that way, she isn't doing it on purpose. And also it is fair for us to try and prevent it. And there's something we have to figure out, because it isn't fair to others that she invades their privacy either.” Yor paused for a moment, something passed over her features and she darted a look at Twilight, as though she just remembered he was a spy and what that implied about transgressing privacies. He resisted reacting in any way; he didn't comment. Yor cleared her throat and went on, “And I think otherwise… otherwise we have to better understand how it works. And… and what Anya thinks about it. And what Anya wants. So we can, can figure it out together. All three of us.”

“I had wondered whether it was like an allergy,” Twilight admitted slowly, “Or a skill similar to what you or I do, in our professions. But the way you're describing it seems more accurate. It is an ability but almost more like an instinctive one.”

“Instinct, that's right," Yor said with a nod, as though that was the word she had been looking for. "And I… I think you and I both know how closely held instincts can be.”

“Mm…” Twilight leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He rotated his mug on the table, long gone cold. “Anya is returning to school tomorrow, I don’t want to overwhelm her with this when she’s also trying to catch up…” Twilight tilted his head, considered. “Once things get back into routine. Once Anya seems… more fine?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Hmm, it is confusing, isn’t it?” Yor agreed, worrying her lip. “How all right she seems?”

“She told me,” Twilight stopped, swallowed around a sudden tightness in his throat. “She told me she was all right because… We went to get her. That she knew that you… and I… would always come to get her.”

“Oh,” Yor whispered, her eyes immediately bright with tears. Twilight cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, rotating the mug again as Yor took another tissue.

“Once we’re back to routine,” Twilight repeated after she blew her nose. “Then we’ll discuss her abilities with her.”

“Mm,” Yor said, nodding. Then she sighed. “It’s all so difficult, isn’t it? I know things are… that we’re a little… maybe at odds? Sort of… But…” She rolled her shoulders, almost a shrug. “I think it would be so much more difficult with someone else. Don't you th… That is, while I was… out… earlier, I was thinking. And I realised that I’m… grateful, I think, that it's me. That it's. Us.”

“You're… grateful…?”

“What if I had actually been the woman you thought? Just a, just a n-normal civilian. City Hall employee. I never would have been able to help with Anya's k-kidnap… I never would have been able to keep Anya safe any of the times she’s gotten into trouble. I never would have understood any of the things you’ve told me these last few days; any of the things you’ve done. But an assassin,” she said quietly, something strange under her voice like humour blended with sorrow, “And a spy… I can’t think of anyone else who could better protect- and understand- and love- Anya…” She smiled faintly. “Don’t you think, Loid?”

An assassin. And a spy.

Twilight swallowed. “You're right.” He nodded. “It would have been harder, if I, or you, had only been a civilian.”

Rescuing Anya would have been different, substantially more difficult, he may have had to wait the six hours Handler had wanted. But it wasn't that Yor was an assassin. Not exactly. It was that she wouldn't be Yor if she weren't. And without Yor, without Yor as she was — He’d have made many more mistakes in Anya’s upbringing prior, and then navigating how to caretake Anya now, on his own…?

As for he himself…

An assassin, and a spy.

He knew exactly where he stood with Yor. Their relationship was… exactly what it was.

But the thing is…

Somehow he couldn’t stop the thought. A spy, and an assassin.

Something might happen.

 

---

 

Twilight had taken himself to his room after their conversation. Changed out of his day clothes, into sweat pants and a loose t-shirt. 

Then he had stood there, by his closet. 

The room had felt cool. Empty. He had looked at his bed. At its neutral cream spread. And its two pillows. The one opposite the door was smooth, no one had laid there. No one had ever laid there. He rotated the pillows as a matter of course, but. 

He always took the spot closest to the door. 

Not that it mattered. No one else ever shared this room. Nor shared this bed. The circumstances at the safehouse had been an aberration. It wasn't even as though he'd really shared the bed with Yor. He had been aware, of course, overly aware, that she had laid, had slept, had dreamt, in the spot beside where he himself had being laying. But that wasn't… They had simply slept in the same room, the same bed, which wasn't…

This room and this bed were not for sharing.

That was as it should be.

That was as it had to be.

That was his preference.

He hadn’t ever wanted anyone to share his bed.

…

He had stepped away from his closet, passed his bed to walk to his side table. Picked up his book. Returned to the equally empty living room.

And he had now been there for two hours.

Urging himself, once more, to at least go to his bedroom, to stop being absurd — 

He was aware of Yor's bedroom door opening, of Yor leaving her room. Assumed she would go to the bathroom; hoped she wouldn't investigate the light on in the living room —

Of course instead, the one worn floorboard in the hall creaked; she must know it just as well as he did, must have stepped on it deliberately so he would know she was there.

He kept his sigh to himself, tipped his head up to look at her —

Ahhhh… 

Their midnight conversations at the safehouse had never presented him with this. Her hair was down, all around her shoulders, down her back. It was a little mussed from where she must have been laying on it, the light catching on flyaways and the little flower at the centre of her headband askew. It wasn’t as it sometimes was first thing in the morning, when she appeared for breakfast directly. But something — his stomach tightened. Had she been tossing and turning in bed? 

It didn't matter. 

Yor was always appealing, but this was so utterly domestic it made his chest ache. It shouldn’t be any different; he had seen her this way before. But knowing now, what he did… She was back in her flowing nightgown, a plain thing he would replace given half a chance, beige with the brown detailing. Her calves and slippered feet peeked out the bottom. The safehouse lighting had been better than most he'd stayed in, gentler, in the living room at night. But nowhere near the warm glow of their own living room. He had chosen those lights, months ago, the perfect evening lighting for the perfect family home and… 

Well, he'd been right. The gentle gold touched Yor's skin, her cheeks, her lips, her throat, and if he looked, it would touch her bare calves, her ankles above her slippers. It rounded over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, even in that plain nightgown. It made him want to fill his hands with her. More than that, he wanted her to fill her hands with him. He always found her inviting; the lighting reissued the invitation. His free hand tightened, curled. He wanted to accept; he wanted to issue his own. The light didn't shrink her; she took up just as much physical space as she always did. More than she realised, in the metaphorical sense.

Something might happen.

Aren’t we friends, Loid?

With careful swallow, a deep breath, Twilight summoned a benign smile of greeting.

And Yor — he hadn't noticed she was tense, but on his smile, some tension flowed from her body. 

I can't keep missing —

“It's a little strange, isn't it?” Yor asked, smiling softly. Tension eased from the back of his neck.

“Hm?”

“Not sharing a bed anymo—” Yor's eyes widened and she threw her hands up. “I don't mean, that is, we didn't really share — and I don't assume that's why you —”

“I understand what you mean,” he interrupted gently, taking pity and ignoring the pang in his chest, the tug in his abdomen. Stopping the flow of images he'd ignored once already of the indelible indicators of Yor's presence in that bed. The images conjured in his mind of Yor’s presence in his. “It was a bit awkward, but the sharing also made things more tolerable, somehow.”

“Somehow,” Yor echoed and if he didn't know better — but he did, he did know better, even if at the moment he sometimes erred — he would have said she swayed towards him, her eyes flicking to his lips, back up to his eyes. That was a trick of the light. Seeing things he wanted to see. He really did need to get more rest.

“It was part of the routine,” he added.

‘Routine,’ Twilight?

But Yor didn't take offence, her shoulders slumped again, as though in relief. “Right,” she agreed, and smiled again. Some strained knot in his stomach released. Then she did glance down, to his hands and the book they held. She bit her lip. “Um, well, I didn't mean to interrupt you —”

Twilight set his book aside. “You're not interrupting.” Something of a lie. He had intended to return to his room, to read more, a brain chemistry book he had coincidentally borrowed from Mr Authen next door a couple of weeks ago. But after the days of tension between them… Even if he weren’t compromised, he would be longing for some reprieve of the their current situation. Just a few minutes, maybe an hour, where things were more simple and he wouldn’t have to think twelve steps ahead. Like it had been between them, before. Or akin to the night he had found her with his novel in the safehouse.

Or perhaps not exactly like that. The tension that night had turned liquid between them, and… And he had mistaken that, too. 

But the conversation that evening, more unburdened than it had been, had been a relief. Something like that would be welcome. He missed her. And with her like this…

Weak, compromised, soft.

In love.

He didn't want to deny.

“Oh,” Yor murmured. She took another step into the room. The light changed over her; somehow it highlighted the solidity of her body. Her strength and power were more prominent. He tipped his head to look up at her as she drew closer still. “If you're sure…”

“I am.” Twilight swallowed.

She let out a breath. “Okay, I'll make some tea. And then, um…”

“Do you want to play a game of cards?”

Where did that come from, Twilight?! Haven't we played cards enough?

But, “Anya's game?” Yor teased, laughter in her voice, “She did tell us earlier that you could use some practice.”

Her laughter became true on the pained look Twilight gave her and he couldn't help his own chuckle. He smiled back at her — lingered on the blush that touched her cheeks before she ducked into the kitchen.

He picked his book back up, forced himself to concentrate on the text and not on the familiar, comforting sounds of Yor moving around the kitchen, humming to herself, as he waited for her.

She brought him a mug of tea, too. The same tea as earlier, with its spiced apple chamomile scent. He hadn't actually liked the flavour, but he couldn't deny the affect of its perfume.

He leaned to retrieve the deck of cards from the sideboard when Yor surprised him, “Um, actually. Do you know how to play chess?”

Twilight glanced at her. “Yes,” he said curiously.

“Hehe, I thought you would. Do you want to play?”

Twilight pulled himself upright from his lean. “Chess doesn't strike me as your game,” he said slowly.

“Mm!” Yor’s smile gentled in the way Twilight had learned meant she was remembering something. “It isn't! But I used to play with the Sh— with my mentor.”

“Ah.”

“I'm sure I'm still not any good,”  she said, self doubt worrying her voice. “And it’s been some time since we’ve played chess. My mentor and I, that is. But maybe I'll learn something from you and I can challenge him to a new game. Maybe I can win for once!”

“Mmm,” Twilight said, drawing to his feet. Passing her on his way to the cabinet, he offered, “I'll teach you all the Westalian tricks.”

It was out of his mouth before he thought of it, and Yor inhaled sharply in surprise behind him. But before he could think what to do, or say, to correct another (!) slip, Yor only said thoughtfully, “That would take him by surprise,” as if it were all right.

Twilight didn’t say anything to that as he retrieved the chess set, and began unpacking it on the coffee table. He did murmur, “Would you like a refresher of the rules?”

“Oh, no,” Yor moaned. “Is it so obvious?” He glanced at her, her hands clasping in her lap as she peered at the board. “I suggested the game but now I can’t remember anything except what the pawns and queen can do!” She sighed, met his eyes. “I’d appreciate that, Loid.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said, dropping his gaze, fixing it on the board as he set out the pieces. 

Loid, he thought, irrationally testy, rotating the rook with more force than necessary as he set it in its square.

Wait. 

He took a breath — “I wonder, Yor,” he forced himself to look back up, to find her face, find her calm, curious eyes once more, to watch for any reaction or recognition, especially negative — “When we’re at home, just us, would you consider calling me Twilight?”

“Oh,” Yor breathed. Was she remembering something she’d heard — Then, “Is that — is that your name?”

She hasn’t heard of me.

Should I…

… 

I’ll explain tomorrow.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to smile, or to force loose the tight pull of muscle at his temples; probably that wrinkle had appeared again on his brow and Yor would notice that even under his fringe; his hands weren’t behaving, if she looked, it would be obvious how tense they were. His heart was pounding somewhere near his throat.

What’s going on —

He did manage to lift a shoulder, drop it, ineffectual as a shrug but — “It’s the closest I have to one, yes.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, holding his gaze, her eyes shone over her cheeks inexplicably shading a sweet pink. 

Beautiful…? 

Then she tilted her head, smiled at him with the full force of her warm heart and it was hard to breathe, his heart squeezed, then set itself to tripping. He skimmed a hand over his solar plexus in a bid to settle the intense feeling —

“I’m pleased to know your name, Twilight,” she said. He didn’t freeze, hearing his name spoken in Yor’s voice, with her eyes still so warm looking at him, her smile still so soft directed at him. His stomach didn’t swoop. His shoulders didn’t ease. No. He didn’t react at all. He wasn’t affected at all.

As he watched, she leaned forwards in her seat, her spine held perfect posture as always, as she sketched a shallow bow. An Ostanian practice in introduction, demonstration of respect — Have I earned — ? 

“It’s my honour to use your name when we’re at home.” And if he didn’t know better — he did, You know better, Twilight — he’d have described her voice as going breathy when she echoed, “Just us.”

Their eyes held for a suspended moment. Then Yor straightened and —

Twilight looked away, back to the board — pull yourself together, it’s just a name — rubbed his hand over his solar plexus again. He cleared his throat. There was still a catch in his voice as he said, “Thank you.”

If any of my colleagues had witnessed that — 

But they hadn’t. It was — Just us. 

He swallowed thickly. His heart throbbing. Glowing. Longing. 

Drawing a series of even breaths, he finished setting the pieces on the board.

At arm’s length, Twilight. Remember.

Twilight focused on the chess board. Lifted a piece. “This is the king. Your goal is to capture mine,” he began, voice finally under control once more, and Yor leaned forward, face pulled into a concentrating frown, her hands clutching the fall of her nightgown over her lap.

He rotated his neck. Rolled his shoulders. Cleared his throat. And reminded Yor how to play.

Notes:

Whallop! Y'all I was blown away by the response to the previous chapter! In the best way! I'm still working my way through responding to comments, but I wanted to say how much they all meant to me. I've read all of them at least twice, revisiting your kind and thoughtful (so thoughtful!) words any time I struggled with this chapter. I promise I'll reply to each of you, I just wanted to say as soon as possible: thank you thank you thank you 🫶🥹💘

My very many thanks to the wonderful and talented Countrymint and Briefhottubcoffee! Brie, you asked questions about that earlier draft which helped me realise what wasn’t quite right and rework this into what it is now, and combined with all our chats (!): I feel so much better about it! Countrymint, as always your perspective, opinions and especially thoughtful weighing in on future plans from where the story currently is, help me make decisions and fine-tune things to be much stronger! Thank you both for everything! 💕💞💖

 

This end note is filled with thanks, but one more! Thank you so much for reading! As ever, I'd love to hear from you ♥💐

Chapter 12

Summary:

“I want to introduce you to my primary informant in Berlint.”

 

Enter Franky, stage left.

Notes:

My endless thanks to countrymint! I sent this to you last minute and still you made time to send me your thoughts, which especially led to me amending the start of this fic for the better (and gave me huge relief about the thing with Franky!) 🫶♥❣️ And endless thanks too to briefhottubcoffee who listened to my (also last minute) woes, reassuring me and, when I shared one particular scene to see if I'd got it right, you made me feel ten feet tall 💕💞♥!

Twilight tapped his pen on his desk. 

This is ridiculous, Twilight…

The clock read 14:32. His last patient of the day left two hours ago. He was trying to catch up on paperwork for the hospital so he could focus on WISE paperwork when he got home.

Patient presents with symptoms of

Anya definitely made it to school; he had dropped her off there himself. There was no need to worry. He and Yor both impressed on her that she was to go directly in without pausing. He had watched her all the way into the shadows of the building.

Shaking his head, he took up the form once again.

Patient presents with

If she had somehow been taken from within the building, he'd have heard from the school. Never mind the Garden operative who was tasked with watch per the schedule he'd memorised when Handler showed him.

Focus, Twilight.

Patient presents with symptoms

What if she was taken near the end of the day? She might not be missed yet —

He frowned. Grimaced.That was absurd. Never mind Garden's reputation as an organisation: he had seen Yor work. He wouldn't be surprised if she was their best, but even if her colleagues were only a quarter as good as she was, they would never miss Anya being taken.

Patient presents

And Anya can read minds, he reminded himself with a sick fall in his stomach every time he remembered that anew. Yor told Anya what to do if she heard someone think anything that sounded like a kidnap plot. Anya repeated it back. She's clever, Twilight, she understood.

And she throws herself into danger all the time, he thought queasily.

She may not be so keen on that after being kidnapped —

That wasn't how she reacted after the first time she was kidnapped —

“Becky is taking Anya home,” he reminded himself in a terse mutter. “Martha Marriott is ex-military. The Garden operative will track them all the way home regardless of Martha Marriott's capabilities. Then Yor will be there to meet her. WISE is confident they shut down the organisation. Anyone who escaped would be foolish to try again. Why would Anya even be their priority after the violent, forceful dissolution of their project?” He ground his teeth. “Anya is safe. The chance she might be taken again is so marginal as to be as close to impossible as it's possible to be.” Forced his jaw to unclench. “So. Stop it.”

Patient pres

The pen creaked ominously as his hold tightened.

With an irritable sigh, Twilight pushed himself to his feet.

 

---

 

Nightfall's expression indicated his excuse hadn't flown. Too late to worry about that now. Most of his colleagues likely considered him compromised in any case, so what did it matter? Twilight watched the flow of students out of Eden's front gates, keeping a look out for telltale pink.

Martha had been understanding when he'd telephoned to say he would pick Anya up. “We were sorry to hear Anya was unwell,” she had said kindly. “It's silly, isn't it, but it's wrenching when they so much as sniffle.”

Twilight couldn't say he related wholly to that; Anya caught colds altogether too often for him to be anxious every time she found new ways to play with her snot. But he relayed his true feelings of disquiet in the wake of her kidnapping, and learning her history…

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. He just wanted to see her.

Becky caught his eye first: Is Anya — ?!

Relief made him lightheaded. Anya was listening with a shocked expression to whatever Becky was chatting about. Hands gripping the straps of her backpack, under her huge uniform hat, Anya really was smaller than her peers; his initial instincts that she was small for six had been proven correct. 

Without thinking it through, Twilight found his hand on the door handle, pulling it and pushing the door wide so he could step out.

“Papa?” Anya asked before she'd even turned her head to look at him — had she heard his thoughts?

“My Loid?!” Becky echoed, looking back and forth before (finally) following Anya's line of sight. In her usual demanding way, “I thought we were taking you home, Anya!”

Twilight kept his wince internal at ‘My (??) Loid,’ and made himself smile in greeting instead. “Nice to see you again, Becky. I finished work early, so I'm able to pick up Anya today. But she'll ride with you tomorrow.”

Anya tipped her head to one side, looking at him in puzzlement.

Becky shrugged. “Okay! See you tomorrow, Anya! I'll finish telling you all about what happened with Vincent and Bianca on Berlint in Love at recess!” She waved, bouncing off towards where Martha was waiting for her. Martha inclined her head to him with an understanding smile, Twilight nodded back.

“Ready to go home, Anya?” he asked.

“Oui!” She smiled up at him and the last worry in his chest evaporated. He opened the back door for her. As she clambered in, she asked, “Will Mama come, too?”

Twilight closed the door, then got into the driver's seat. Pulling his seat belt across, he said, “No, Yor will meet us at —”

A knock at the passenger side window interrupted him.

“Yor?” She was bending, looking through the window, smiling at him.

She waved. After a stunned 0.4 seconds where he was swamped by the simple pleasure of seeing her unexpectedly, he jolted into motion, leaning across to unlock and open the door for her.

“Thank you, Loid!” she said sunnily, getting in.

“I thought you were at work today?” They'd discussed it yesterday, and again this morning as they arranged breakfast. Anya to school. He and Yor to their respective cover employments. Back to normal. Or the public perception of it, anyway.

Maybe she doesn't trust me as much as she said? Is she keeping her true plans a secret from me? Why would she do that? Did she decide this after I told her about my reputation before Anya woke up?

Am I… hurt by this?

“I know,” she said apologetically, putting her seat belt on and turning to check Anya had done the same. Then she met his eyes sheepishly. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, um, I didn't mean to lie. I didn't plan — I was nearly all the way to City Hall and I- I couldn't make myself go in. I just got so worried about…” As though she thought it best not to speak it out loud, her eyes slid to Anya's face — Twilight thought there wasn't much point in obfuscation when it was as likely as not that Anya was reading their minds. But. It would take time to adjust. Yor cleared her throat, continued, “So I decided for today that I would keep an eye on Anya. I don't think my colleague was happy to see me,” she added, half to herself. “They didn't leave though! So there were two of us there for Anya!”

“Ah.” He smiled knowingly at her. When her expression loosened, Yor meeting his eyes with something tender, Twilight cleared his throat, looking back to the road and putting the car in gear. “I understand how you felt,” he said quietly. 

Yor asked softly, “That's why you're here to pick Anya up?”

“I didn't concentrate very well at the hospital today,” he admitted.

Yor hummed. Then turned again to look back at Anya. “How was your day, Anya? It looked like you had fun. Except maybe for — science, was it?”

Twilight glanced in the rear view mirror in time to see Anya slide a glance at him. Twilight smiled wanly. Anya had fallen asleep during her last science exam — she'd woken up with enough time to at least complete the test paper, which was improvement on the winter midterms where she slept through the math exam entirely. But it seemed her interest hadn't improved at all.

Pivoting, Anya said, “Tertius gave Anya this flower,” she pulled a crumpled stalk from her backpack. Another carnation. What's with that kid and carnations? As far as flower language went, it was a neutral choice. But how did he have a constant supply? And why? Was it something relating to Septevia that Twilight should pay closer attention to?

“Ohh,” Yor cooed, just as she had the first time Anya told them about Tertius and his flowers. “I saw him give you something but wasn't sure what it was. That was nice of him!”

It was nice, and it remained curious. Could there be something to the carnations beyond a simple flower?

“Papa's in work mode,” Anya grumbled.

Twilight flinched. He felt Yor's eyes land on him.

“Er,” he said articulately into the expectant silence. He hadn't ever had to worry about this before; Yor wasn't the only one forgetting they had a daughter who could read minds. They hadn't known the truth about his work, before —

That's not true, Twilight. Anya knew the whole time.

He blinked against a wash of dismay. Focus, Twilight. 

Should he give excuses?

The light turned green. Twilight nearly gave into impulse: to pretend to have trouble with the car, except Anya would obviously know that for the farce it was too.

“Heh,” Anya whispered from the back.

He threw her a glare in the rear-view mirror.

Then caught Yor's concerned expression as he looked forward again.

“Ah,” he said, shifting the car into gear. His cheeks heated — His cheeks heated?! For fu— Damnit. “Sorry. I'll. Uh. I'll pay full attention. Now.”

Anya looked smug.

Previously Anya's smug expression tweaked him in different ways depending on the circumstance, but today he noticed how adorable it actually was. Anya wiggled in the back seat as though she'd heard him thinking she was adorable and —

And well. She probably had, hadn't she?

Hm…

Her expression remained much the same for the rest of the journey, even when she was telling them about her new art assignment, even when Yor was clearly confused about her expression. And despite that, all Twilight could think was how relieved he was to have Anya back under his — and Yor's — watch.

 

---

 

He was… fidgeting.

It was an arcane rule he'd made himself: while beyond reason to ask Yor to spend time with him (unless for mission purposes or the rare occasion Yor was upset and Twilight believed he could help), if they happened to meet in the living room in the dark of night, that was all right.

Because?

Tipping his head back, he slumped into the couch.

Because he could claim it was incidental.

He'd been waiting for ten minutes. Undoubtedly Yor knew he was here. It was clear her hearing was on a par with his, finely honed, and likely better. He had paperwork to do: twice as much, as he hadn't finished that hospital work yet. 

And if his room remained… empty, in that way that it had always been but the tenor of which had changed after the safehouse, he could now work at the dining table without pretending he was doing something else. If his room, his bed, bothered him that much. Eventually it would bother him less, after all.

Wouldn't it?

Had that mark always been on the ceiling?

Yor's bedroom door opened.

Twilight held himself still. Listening.

That floorboard creaked — Twilight dropped his head back down and met Yor's beautiful eyes. Her lovely, soft smile.

“Chess?” she asked.

Twilight breathed out. Let himself feel the relaxation washing through him, that mild ache in his chest as he looked at her. He smiled, nodded. “Let's play.”

 

---

 

They met the next night, too. And the night after that. At what point could it be considered routine?

 

---

 

They'd been out of the safehouse for four days, Anya had returned to school and Twilight had returned to work at the hospital — he had picked up Anya on her second day at school, too, but hadn't left the hospital early since. Yor had also returned to work at city hall. Things were back to normal. 

No.

Not to normal. Or at least, not to the normal from before.

Twilight stretched his neck. Sitting on the couch, he leaned forward, resting elbows on knees and his chin on his bridged hands. Enough time had passed with the appearance of normality, was the best way to put it perhaps, that he judged he should be able to contact Franky without raising the suspicions of their joint WISE and Garden watch.

The lingering question was Yor.

Anya had disappeared into her room to start her homework before dinner — she had been more motivated to do her homework since returning to school and Twilight hadn't yet parsed whether that was actually as good a sign as he wanted.

Yor emerged from her room, having changed from her City Hall uniform into her home clothes. Twilight raised his eyes to her face as she drew to a stop, her hands going still from where she had been fixing her hair. Meeting his gaze warily, she drew her hands together in front of her chest.

“Yor,” he said evenly. “There was something I wanted to… ask. Or rather, broach.”

Her hands tightened on one another, her expression growing warier still, a little high, she said, “Mhm?”

“I mentioned my intention to doctor Anya's file before turning it over to WISE.” He paused; Yor nodded. “And.” 

He stalled.

Again?

Over this?

Over Franky?

“Uh,” he managed, and pulled himself upright.

Did that help?

Opening his mouth — nothing came out.

What could it possibly be about Franky that would get stuck in his throat? He trusted Franky nearly as much as he trusted anyone else — except… Except for Yor. But that was because Franky was…

Because Franky was Franky. 

Asinine, he thought irritably. But also true. He’d never met anyone like Franky before or since.

There was also the prospect of telling anyone about what Anya could do, which twisted his stomach into such tight knots he nearly had to take himself to the bathroom to vomit again.

He had thought if Yor was willing — if Yor trusted his judgement — 

In case he was wrong about Franky, or Franky found himself in a very difficult position… Twilight had reasoned it was worth it to make as plain as possible the threat to Franky, should he ever consider revealing the information about Anya. And who better than Yor, an assassin from the near mythic organisation Franky had tried to warn Twilight of, who Franky knew loved Anya deeply?

And on the other hand, if Franky is as true as I believe, then it's to his benefit to know Yor, should he somehow otherwise draw Garden's attention.

And more importantly, for Yor to know Franky. In case something happens to me.

… Like the end of Strix, Twilight?

No, not that. (Not that?) No, not the end of Strix.

His mind was playing tricks on him, as though he could smell that acrid, vile mix of scents from the battle field where he'd met Franky. Cigarette smoke. Gun powder. The peculiar blend of green trees, decaying leaf, tang of blood. And Franky in his ears, inexorable as always, So why is it all of us worthless peons gotta be the ones to clean up their mess —

“Twilight?”

Yor's kind voice, carrying his name, cut through his thoughts, through his tension — he focused his eyes on her concerned expression. Twilight pulled in a breath, fast and rough, almost painful as it filled his lungs. Made himself release it slowly, ensured his exhale was measured where his inhale was anything but.

She watched him closely — Yor saw too much of him — but when he settled, she gave him a weak, reassuring smile. “Is there… Can I…” She drew her own, slow, breath. “I'm… I'm prepared for whatever it is you wanted to… to ask.” She tipped her head. “It can't be worse than anything we've already talked about, right?”

Strix's mission parametres rolled through his mind like a tank.

Twilight forced himself to smile. It was true that Franky, at least, was nothing like any of his other secrets.

He smoothed his hands over his thighs. Fleetingly, the idea of taking her hand —

Yor's hands aren't for you, Twilight.

“You're right,” he said. “I want to introduce you to my primary informant in Berlint. They also do odd jobs for me, like forging documents. Our marriage certificate, for instance, was their work. I… trust them,” he forced out, through inexplicably grit teeth. “For the most part. But I'm also acutely aware that they trade in information. There is always some risk. And I want them to understand that it isn't only me they'd have to deal with, if they were ever to trade intel about Anya.”

Yor held his gaze steadily. Something like sorrow, like regret, like resolve passed over her features until she landed on something more philosophical.

She said quietly, “You… you trust me to keep their secret?”

Twilight hesitated. It was and wasn't about trust. But in the least he could reiterate: “I trust you, Yor,” he said. “And I trust your judgement. And above all, I trust you with Anya.”

Yor swallowed thickly. Nodded, holding his gaze.

“If your question is about telling Garden about my informant,” Twilight went on, “Well. I can ask my informant about that, if you like. But I suspect they won't mind the possibility of protection from Garden by being linked to one of Garden's favourite operatives.”

Yor chewed her lip. “I… It didn't occur to me to tell Garden about them,” she said absently. Then she drew a breath and straightened. “Yes. If you believe they — that I can be helpful, for Anya's sake. Yes. I'd do anything.”

“Thank you.”

“When did you want to…?”

“I want them to doctor Anya's files as soon as possible. Is it too soon for you if I were to introduce you to them tonight?”

Yor blinked. “I — yes, of course, if — but isn't Franky coming for dinner tonight?”

Twilight hesitated. Then smiled ruefully. “About that…”

 

---

 

“You vanish for five days and then expect me to turn up whenever you call?” Franky hissed two hours later when Twilight answered the door, thrusting a bottle of wine into Twilight's chest as he shoved in, shrugging off his jacket. “The least you could do is tell me when you won't be availa — Mrs Forger!” Franky greeted Yor, all cheer and warmth on a dime as Yor joined them. “How are you? I heard little Anya was sick, that must have been worrying for you!”

As Yor managed a passably normal welcome to Franky, Twilight hung up Franky's jacket, reflecting. He hadn't anticipated Franky worrying — was it worry? How had he known they'd been gone? Had Franky needed something from him?

“What's with your missus, Twilight?” Franky muttered as Yor gave excuses, slipping into the kitchen. “She seems nervous.”

Not so passable, then. 

“Let's sit,” Twilight said — which was when Anya strode into the room, pointed with her habitual, “Scruffyhead!”

“Princess Anya! How are you feeling, kiddo?”

“Anya's back at school,” Anya announced. Which was a helpful diversion; Twilight hoped it wasn't intentional off the back of his thoughts, but he would take advantage of it in the meantime.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Franky told her. Then he whipped something out of his pocket, something Twilight couldn't quite make out, presenting it to Anya as though she really were royalty, “This is for you!”

Anya's eyes lit up. “Like Bondman's!”

Oh, great.

“Better than Bondman's,” Franky said smugly. “Let me show you how it works — oh, Doggo. I've got something for you, too,” he added, secreting some treat to Bond. At least Twilight assumed it was a treat, based on the loud crunch from Bond, a content tail wag to follow.

Twilight huffed, slipping into the kitchen to help — and check on — Yor.

She was standing immobile, watching Franky playing with Anya with a pensive look on her face. He slid into place beside her; stopped himself reaching to touch her lower back in reassurance.

Instead he said quietly, “Yor?”

“I was just thinking,” she said absently. “Is… Everyone of your — friends or, or hospital? Colleagues. Who I've. Who I've met. Are they…”

“No,” he said honestly. “Most are exactly who they say they are.”

“Miss Frost — ?” she asked as though it were a half thought.

Yor zeroing in on Nightfall immediately — were he someone else, he may have dropped the glass he'd just taken out of the cupboard. If it weren't for the fact Yor would need to pass that information to Garden, he would probably have confirmed it. Instead, “Most of the people you've met through me have been exactly who they said they were,” he reiterated, diverted. “I can't say more than that. Information about me is a foregone conclusion and a calculated risk, but I can't expose my colleagues to Garden without approval.” Yor jolted, as though once again she hadn't considered that Garden would expect her to pass them information.

He flexed his hand, stopping that impulse to touch her a second time.

“But Franky isn't with WISE,” Twilight went on lowly, "You could consider him… adjacent to WISE, through me."

“You said… You said you have a long history with Franky.”

“From before I joined WISE, yes,” Twilight murmured. Frustratingly, that was about all he had managed to convey to her. That, and a few more vague particulars of their working relationship. “If we —”

“Oi, Forgers. Instead of flirting, you could pour the wine!”

Yor flushed instantly and Twilight's own face warmed dramatically.

I need him, Twilight reminded himself, glaring at Franky's shit-eating grin. 

“Papa and Mama flirt all the time now,” Anya told Franky.

Twilight choked, Yor cried, “Anya!” in dismay and Franky cackled as Anya blinked at them in wide-eyed puzzlement.

With unnecessary force, Twilight did as Franky — asked — nearly breaking the cork in his aggravation. Stop it, Twilight. It wasn't useful to mentally file through the various non-lethal toxins he had in his supplies. There was no point.

I need him I need him I need him I need him — 

“Eh, Yor. I always thought he didn't treat you as well as he should.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?! The tips of his ears burned. Maybe he would choose one of the milder — “Has Loid finally pulled out all the stops for you?”

“I think you should stop teasing, Franky,” Yor said, a slight waver to her voice. Her smile was tight, but Twilight thought from afar it would seem as sweet as she was clearly aiming for. “You don't want us to put something in your food.”

Twilight swallowed a smile — for now, Franky likely took that as a threat that Yor would cook; he'd know the truth behind her implication soon enough — then Twilight glanced at Yor to find her glancing at him at the same moment. He released his smile, smaller than it would have otherwise been were Franky not watching, but tension fell from Yor's shoulders and she loosed a quiet, Heehee.

Twilight admitted under his voice, “I had the same thought.”

“I was mostly joking,” Yor said in an undertone, her blush softening. “But I do have several toxins that aren't lethal but are, um, unpleasant? Even at very low doses.”

“Me, too,” Twilight said, smile widening. He turned his back on the living room, pouring the wine. Inclining his head to Yor, he looked at her from under his fringe. “We should compare supplies later. I'm sure I have a lot to learn from you.”

“You do? You're sure?!” Yor's voice was a little high, her blush renewing, a small, pretty smile lighting her eyes. “I'd be happy to. That is. If. If you really think I could —”

“I do,” Twilight interrupted gently. Seriously, “I like to learn from masters.”

Her breath left her in a soft Oh, and she mouthed Master? her eyes rounding, shining, and on her next breath, her smile blossomed, pleased — 

“I do have… have a large collection,” she confessed quietly. Her lashes fluttered as she tilted her chin down to peer up at him shyly. “Toxins, and, and also poisons, if you're interested in those too.”

“Poisons?” He hummed thoughtfully, lower, more seductive than he'd intended — he nearly withdrew with apologies except that Yor swallowed, her lips parting, watching him intently, like she was hanging on his next words. And so Twilight leaned slightly towards her, went on, allowing the barest rasp of gravel into his voice, “I've done some work with poisons, but not extensively.”

“They aren't my preferred method,” Yor told him, breathy, drawing closer. “But sometimes…”

“Sometimes they're best,” Twilight murmured.

“Mhm,” Yor hummed.

The charge between them grew — he should be incredulous — Yor doesn't want this — but it was hard to remind himself of that when her smile shifted just a little bit playful, inviting, her breath shallowing, peering at him again from under her lashes, pinching her bottom lip with her teeth —

Longing, want, stirred, tightening low in his core, his stomach swooping. What would she do, he wondered, if I leaned —

“For fu— ahem, uh, for pete's sake, Loid! How many times do I gotta ask?”

Fuck. Twilight straightened as Yor spun back to the sink in a fluster. Exasperation grit his teeth but Franky had inadvertently assisted him, keeping him from getting too carried away. What the hell was I thinking?

“Coming,” Twilight said, voice still rough and — Goddamnit. He knew better: he may have been flirting but Yor wasn't. She was…

She was…

He shook himself in the single moment he was hidden from both Yor and Franky's views, rounding the corner into the living room. Yor was unaccustomed to compliments, most especially about her work and her skills, he would imagine. So of course she had responded like that.

… As though she were flirting?

No.

No. She hadn't been flirting. She'd been…

He'd misunderstood something about her response. He would review it later.

“Your wine,” Twilight said, making sure he loomed over Franky, giving him a look under which he knew Franky usually balked.

But Franky didn't, not this time. Instead Franky flashed him a look of something more worrying, from Twilight's perspective. Franky looked defiant. And anxious.

 

---

 

After dinner, Twilight shared a quick glance with Yor before she shepherded Anya to bed. Twilight nodded, said in his normal Loid tones, "Thank you, Yor." 

“Sweet dreams, Princess Anya,” Franky called.

“Night, Scruffy!”

“It's Good night, Anya,” Yor murmured, ushering Anya into the bathroom for her before-bed routine. “You have to be polite, even to Franky —”

The door shut before Franky could utter his outraged, “Oi!”

But Franky was already turning back towards Twilight, slight forgotten, expression sombre. Twilight raised an eyebrow, but let Franky start them off.

“Where were you this past weekend?” Franky asked in hushed tones. “Did something happen?”

Twilight studied him. He was going to tell Franky everything anyway; Anya's documents would tell him most of it so there wasn't much point in censoring. But it would be useful to know how much had already gotten out.

“Why are you worried?” Twilight asked instead of answering. Under normal circumstances, Franky would never be taken by that diversion. Let's see how spooked he is…

Twilight had been more worried than he realised, his relief profound when Franky levelled a look at him, muttering, “Fine, I'll go first.”

Assuming Franky had the full report, and Twilight did assume that, the sum total that was circulating amounted to: Word was that something went down at a secret government operation outside Berlint city limits, starting some time between Friday night and Saturday morning. The details of what happened were hazy, no one was certain who was involved though the way in which the site was active Thursday and empty Sunday suggested certain actors. “Nothing's confirmed, obviously. My guy said whoever it was, was thorough. Not so much as a flickering bulb left on in the place.” He eyed Twilight speculatively. “You don't know anything about that, do you?”

Twilight's blood had chilled. An informant who knew enough to know they'd been thorough — “How did your informant know about it?”

He'd known for years there may come a point where he'd need to take out someone in Franky's circle. If the informant was from inside the operation —

“My guy had a guy — or a gal, women's lib, you know — who worked in the place. They'd had a set meeting for Saturday morning, but his guy-gal never showed. He risked a quick look and… well. The place was deserted. It had been a pretty big operation, he said. There was always someone walking around outside, or having a smoke. He estimated at least a thousand people working there.”

Not quite. They hadn't yet been up to full capacity. WISE were processing final numbers of collars and hits, but estimated more in the range of 350-380.

“And you think I want to know this because…?”

“Listen wise guy,” Franky hissed. “This is the type of intel you usually want. Something governmental and big and messy and shady as fuck going down. I called here Saturday night. No answer. Okay, no problem. Maybe you took the family on one of your ootings. I took a chance, showed up here Sunday. Nothing. Bumped into a neighbour who said you were at a conference, that Yor joined you to look after Anya who was sick — a cover story only civilians would fall for if ever I heard one. So what, I got a little worried.” Franky threw him a glare. “Worried is a feeling for us mere mortals. Makes us sick in our tummies, our hands sweaty, you know? Sometimes when we've been stupid enough to get kinda attached to the local spy in our lives, we feel it when he suddenly goes missing with his civilian family the same weekend there's a massive hit on a secret governmental operation. You know?”

“Oh, Franky,” Yor said, in touched tones as Franky jumped a foot in the air with a strangled shout. Twilight raised his eyes to Yor, who had joined them around the end of Franky relating his informant's report. She tipped her head, her hands up by her chest. “It's so sweet you were worried about Twilight.”

Franky stayed frozen for a count of twenty. Enough time for Yor to start to become obviously uncomfortable, her eyes flicking questioningly to meet Twilight's, who took the opportunity to gesture her to join them. By the time she did, Franky unstuck himself, turning stiffly to face Twilight, and Yor now settled at arm's length beside him on the couch.

“You said,” Franky began, staring at Yor. Then seemed to change his mind, turning a glare on Twilight instead, starting again accusingly, “Yor said Twilight.”

“Franky, I'd like to re-introduce you to Yor,” Twilight said evenly, indicating her with his hand. He'd suggested she refer to him as Twilight, that Franky would understand what that meant. “While I married Yor as cover for my work as a spy in Ostania,” he said, having worded that very specifically so Franky would understand Yor didn’t know the details of his mission and only the nature of his work, “Yor married me as cover for her work. As an assassin for Garden.”

Franky's jaw literally dropped. Twilight took some petty satisfaction as payback for his earlier needling. Yor raised her hand and waved awkwardly as Franky turned his gaze — notably more nervous now — onto Yor.

“Hi F-Franky!” Yor said in a rush. “I, um. I suppose… well, it's nice to meet you. Again. And I…” Yor drew a deep breath. Twilight glanced at her curiously as she let it out slowly. She doesn't have to say anything more — “Loi—Twilight has told me some of what you've done for him. Over the years. And I don't know the details, but I feel I should thank you,” her tone was sincere but her hands tightened in her lap as though she were nervous. His mind's eye presented him the image of putting his hand over hers, like it was easy, like it was every day — then his ears caught up with what she was saying and he had to work to keep his own jaw from dropping. Thank — ?! She went on slowly, seriously, “You've helped Twilight in his work and also to keep him safe. And I'm very grateful to you for that.”

Franky stared at Yor, mouth still agape. In part of his mind, Twilight registered that he'd need to say something, or the longer the silence went on, the more likely it was that Yor would get nervous she'd done something wrong.

And she hadn't done anything wrong.

She had just done something.

Inexplicable.

Was she — was she still trying to play at being the perfect wife, or was that true —

Of course it's true. Yor can't lie.

And — I choose to worry about you, she'd said. She'd told him that, their first night home from the safehouse.

She had also, whether she had intended it or not, marked him as someone whose wellbeing she took an interest in. That he was, in essence, under her protection.

Part of him wanted to demand whether she realised that was what she had done, whether it had been deliberate — 

Another part of him — directly linked to the first, a part of himself Twilight had never previously experienced, a part of himself he’d been keeping closely in check these last few months, irrational as it was, and exceptional — that part of him wanted viscerally to lead Yor away. To kiss her breathless in the privacy of their-his room. To strip every last thread of clothing from her body and discover all the ways he could, with his voice and his hands and his mouth and his body, make her feel incredible, and safe, and cared f— No, think the word, Twilight.

Loved.

Why that, and why now, he would need to figure out later because what he actually needed to do immediately was regain his wits before Franky did or he'd never hear the end of it.

Twilight passed his hand over his mouth — an unforgivable tell in any other company, but Franky was preoccupied and Yor… Yor would likely have picked up something of his feelings in any case. And there was no way she would read specifically what the gesture meant.

It did serve to ground him, to push that impulse for intimacy back, down, away from now.

He cleared his throat to draw her attention, and Yor turned her eyes on him — her eyebrows and mouth were pulled into worried lines, her shoulders tense, but Twilight watched as she searched his face. He arranged his features into something supportive, and, he smiled slightly, let a sliver of his affection, appreciation, show through to her, and he watched Yor relax. Smile a little back.

Twilight went on, as though Yor hadn't shifted the ground beneath his feet, and stunned Franky, simply by being who she was, “Yor, this is Franky. I mentioned earlier but it bears repeating, he has been my most,” Twilight paused. Drew a breath and sighed heavily, “Reliable informant and confidant for years.”

As he'd hoped, his exasperation at the truth of their relationship snapped Franky out of his shock. He pointed a finger at Twilight, “You're damn right. Which is why you shouldn't drop this sort of thing on my head without warning! I'm gunna have nightmares — er, no offence, Yor,” he said, turning back to her. He actually lowered his eyes. His voice respectful, he explained, “It's just, Garden has a reputation in my circles, you know?”

“It does?” Yor asked, with evident astonishment.

“Er, yeah. You didn't know that?”

Yor tipped her head to one side, raising a hand to her chin. Twilight swallowed down a fond smile. She said, “I suppose I never thought about it before…”

As Franky spluttered, Twilight said, “To return to the matter at hand —”

“Isn't this the matter at hand?” Franky glared, gesturing emphatically again to Yor. Then, as with sudden realisation, hunched and said, “No offence again, Yor.”

“Huh?”

“The matter at hand,” Twilight repeated, interceding, “Was about the joint mission between WISE and Garden over the weekend to take down an operation in which unknown entities were experimenting on humans. Including children.”

“They were…” Franky looked back and forth between Twilight and Yor, sinking back into his seat. Voice hoarse, “They were experimenting on kids?”

From the corner of his eyes, Twilight clocked Yor looking away, once again clenched his hand against the impulse to take hers. He also noted Franky specifying children — he wouldn't press the point now, unsure what Yor would do if it was a slip that indicated Franky knew, or suspected, there was experimentation happening to adults. He'd find out next time it was just the two of them.

So Twilight only nodded. “Yor and I found out about it, and one another, because that organisation kidnapped Anya.”

His voice had been the same, neutral, uninflected, the way he delivered any report. But his vision narrowed dangerously.

Franky hadn't noticed Twilight's moment of distraction, staring in shock into the middle distance; but the way Yor's attention was suddenly on him meant that Yor had.

“Twilight…” Yor murmured. Even nearly soundless, his body's response was immediate, soothing the edge off his upset.

“We've learned,” Twilight went on, “That Anya had been there before —”

“What?” Franky demanded. “How can that be? None of my research —”

“Nor WISE's, nor Garden's,” Twilight said evenly. Franky was pale, his hands trembled. “Take a drink, Franky,” Twilight suggested. He'd made the switch to scotch after dinner for a reason. He waited until Franky lowered the glass, then leaned forward and poured him another finger. “As you've no doubt concluded, she was there because the organisation experimented on her.” Twilight set the bottle down, harder than he'd intended, the clunk overloud in the quiet of the night. The emotion in Franky's eyes was difficult to bear; Twilight drew on his training to hold his gaze. “As a result, Anya can read minds.”

There was motion from beside him, as though Yor had reached for him and stopped herself. Twilight suppressed the wish that she would; the ghost of her hand on the back of his neck was haunting him — No, Twilight. He borrowed comfort from that memory instead.

Franky was staring hard at him. Twilight didn't blame him; it was a difficult fact to believe, more difficult still to stomach. But the longer Twilight didn't indicate lie or joke, the more expression leached from Franky's face. Along with more colour, Franky turning paler, more grey.

“Breathe, Franky,” Yor encouraged softly.

Jolted, Franky did heave in a breath, and that seemed to stir him to motion. He downed the finger of scotch; snatched the bottle from Twilight’s hand; poured himself three more —

Twilight rocked forward, putting his hand over the glass as Franky raised it. “We aren't done talking,” he said, clamping down on his own frustration. “You can lose your head to alcohol later.”

Franky glared at him mutinous, but Twilight allowed some emotion through: some of his own horror, his own grief, his own terror. Just enough, so Franky relented. Muttered, “I'll just take a sip.”

Sitting back, Twilight met Yor's look. He couldn’t take her hand, but he could draw something from this — from the burden shared. Yor seemed to draw strength from him, too, sitting taller in her seat. Twilight lifted his eyebrow in question — You’re all right? — and Yor nodded, lifting her eyebrow, asking the question in turn. Twilight sighed, imperceptibly to anyone else. Yor’s eyes softened and she nodded once more. Understanding. Then they both looked back at Franky as he stirred.

“So you need something,” Franky said, rocking his glass back and forth, watching the delayed slosh of liquor painting the sides. “From me,” he added unnecessarily, looking at Twilight, glancing at Yor, without raising his head.

Drawing the files from a hidden spot by the couch, Twilight set them on the table. “I — We need you to doctor Anya's file.”

“Why?”

Twilight had turned this answer over and over since he'd first read the file. “Yor and I are decided that no one presently outside this home needs to know what Anya can do.”

“You're keeping this from WISE?” Franky asked incredulously, making an abortive motion to raise his glass again. “You don't trust WISE?”

“I don't trust Westalis,” Twilight corrected. “I'm sure you of all people can understand that.”

“Fuuuuck.” Twilight took that for concession of the point. Franky stared into the middle distance for a further count of twenty-six before meeting Twilight's eyes again. “What changes do you want made?” Then he pointed at the stack and added snippily, “And there's more than just one file there.”

“Thank you, Franky,” Yor breathed feelingly, and Twilight felt compelled to add, “I appreciate this.”

Franky’s expression wobbled alarmingly and Twilight panicked he’d overestimated Franky’s alcohol tolerance before Franky dashed his hand under his glasses to wipe his eyes and said, “Anything for the kid, for Anya, all right? Tell me what you want me to do.”

 

---

 

Later, after Franky had left, in the hours of quiet in the late night, Twilight stepped into the the living room, the soft light of the only two lamps they lit whenever they did this. Yor was already waiting for him, lovely in her nightgown, the chess set out but closed and set off to the side. Two mugs steaming in front of her.

“I was wondering if tonight we might… talk?” Yor said, voice quiet.

“Of course,” Twilight said automatically, even as weariness descended. He had… hoped… absurdly, that these meetings would remain… What, Twilight? More casual, he supposed, for all he would be a complete fool to pretend they weren’t also laced with some tension he hadn’t yet identified, which unbalanced him. It wasn’t a tension that left him drained or irritable. It didn’t interfere with the calm he felt whenever Yor was near. It was simply… there. An undercurrent. A charge. A draw.

It was also a question for another time.

For now, it made sense that Yor would have more questions. He wasn't sure he would be any more able to talk about Franky than he had been the earlier, having not yet had the opportunity to figure that out, but in the least he could hear her out. Even if he would have preferred this conversation be delayed. He’d anticipated things would settle, at least somewhat, now that they’d returned home. But the last few days had had more emotional ups and downs than he could count.

She sighed out in relief, then pushed a mug towards him. Ah, another cup of her tea; truthfully he'd have preferred hot chocolate this evening. But it was a kind gesture, and he wasn't about to make Yor feel — in the mug was a deep brown slurry and chocolate-tinged steam billowed across his face, into his nose. He looked at her in surprise, “How —”

“It's the only secret of yours I knew, before,” she said, laughing softly. “That you sometimes had late night hot chocolate.” She blushed as he stared wordlessly. Yor leaned forward slightly, gesturing to the mug. “I, um, added marshmallows. I'm not sure if that's how you like it?”

Twilight swallowed heavily. “It's perfect,” he said thickly.

Yor smiled at him, her shoulders easing. She sighed, “I’m glad.”

Twilight sat, and when next he looked at her, her expression had turned pensive. He prompted, “You have questions about Franky?”

“Oh,” she said, hands twisting. “No. Actually…” she drew a deep breath, pulled herself straight in her seat. “I've decided something,” she said, fingers fretting in her nightgown.

Twilight's stomach turned to ice. She's leaving —

“I want…” Yor drew a shuddering breath, and in that brief pause, Twilight's mind filled with a klaxon of She's leaving, she's leaving, she's — “I want to tell you. About.” Wait. His heart tripped on the possibility he'd been wrong. Don't — “About… I know you said you would have to tell WISE about… me. About anything I tell you.” Slowly, Twilight breathed out. Let the ice in his stomach thaw with an inhale of the hot chocolate’s warm steam as his pulse moved from panic to anticipation. Yor chewed her lip. Then she straightened her shoulders, inexplicably blushed, and said, “I don’t want WISE to know about me but. More than that. More, more importantly to me. I want you to know. About me.” She nodded decisively, and Twilight filled his lungs. She said again, certainly, sweetly, “I want to tell you about me. Twilight, I want you to, to know- me.”

Swallowing thickly, pressing a hand to his solar plexus, passing his thumb over his pounding heart, Twilight inclined his head.

He should try to dissuade her — but — I choose —

Softly, “All right, Yor,” he murmured, her name filling his mouth. “I'd like that.”

Notes:

Hey y’all! I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to sign up this fic for the "Finish Your Shit" WIP Big Bang — basically a BB for folks needing an extra push to finish their work. I love this fic so, so much, that isn’t an issue: the heft of what I’ve got planned combined with the rejigging I need to do to future stuff I’ve already written is such that I feel like the structure and space the BB provides will help me get this right. The downside is that it means it’s only me is going on hiatus 😱 the upside (!) is that when I start posting again in August (or latest in September, depending on BB guidelines) it will be 95% complete, essentially just edits outstanding, so I’ll be updating regularly through the posting window! Basically once this bad boy comes back from hiatus, we’ll be blasting through to the end 🥳

 

Thank you so much for your patience, and also thank you so much for reading! I remain so moved and honoured that folks like this fic and I'm really excited to bring it home. Truly, thank you ♥ and as always I'd love to hear from you ☕️

Chapter 13

Summary:

He had missed too much. Taken too much for granted. He and Yor had had their unspoken agreement not to pry, and so Twilight had accepted whatever she said, slotted his observations into known parameters of people's behaviour. And when Yor didn't fit perfectly... Well. She was extraordinary. Strange. Objectively lovely, in a way he hadn't before encountered. And he had encountered, and studied, a great number of people. Of course she wouldn't fit perfectly; the world he normally inhabited would never have had room for the person he had thought he understood Yor to be.

Notes:

Hiiiiiiiiii 👋 I ramble a great deal in the end notes, so for now…

 

My very many thanks as always to the wonderful briefhottubcoffee and countrymint! Both of who have been extraordinarily encouraging over the last few months and had a read through of the messiest drafts of this chapter, helping me sort out where things weren't working or how to finesse things. Their help has been and continues to be invaluable, especially talking through specifics for the fic on the whole and getting into the nitty gritty with me 🔎♥♥♥ a bonus shoutout to countrymint, who generously indulged my bananas request for a last minute re-read before posting⭐️

This chapter comes with content warnings, select the arrow to read

Discussion of poverty and the impacts of war; the casual reference to one's own death (not suicidal); two panic attacks.

And for folks who would appreciate a refresher of where we left off, you can select this line’s wee arrow

In the last chapter, Twilight introduced Yor to Franky and arranged with Franky to doctor Anya's files to disguise her abilities. After Yor previously told Twilight she'd been recruited by Garden at fourteen, Twilight had explained to Yor that anything else he learned about her he would now need to share with WISE, which Yor understood correctly as warning she may want to consider what she was comfortable WISE knowing. After being introduced to Franky, Yor came to a decision, telling Twilight, “I want to tell you about me. Twilight, I want you to, to know- me.”

“I was twelve, when I became responsible for Yuri,” Yor began slowly, looking away from him and into the steam of her tea. “It was the scariest thing I've ever done.”

Twilight no sense of what was normal for a twelve year old, but he remembered what it was like to be responsible for himself at that age… He rubbed his hand a final time across his solar plexus before making himself stretch his arm to rest loosely on the chair's armrest. His circumstances had of course been different: Yor and Yuri at least still had had a home, the physical building, to reside in. But even then, he couldn't imagine being responsible for another child when still virtually a child himself, especially one Anya's age.

“I don't think I've ever been that scared again,” Yor went on quietly, raising her eyes again to meet Twilight's. She smiled slightly. “Yuri was five years old. It feels like it was a long time ago, he's so grown up now! But it's also kind of like that time lives, just here, in my head?” She lifted her hand, gesturing with splayed fingers and open palm to the back of her head, then touching her fingers lightly to the right side of her updo where it tucked into her headband. “But also there are things I don't remember?” A wash of discomfort crossed her features. “In the grief, after our parents died. It was probably the same for you, when you lost your… Oh, um. You must have, have lost… someone?”

He nodded — Many — and answered seriously, “I have.”

“You have,” Yor echoed. “So you know it can be difficult to hold onto… to keep everything in your head, in grief?”

With his memory, no. He didn’t forget. But in principle, yes, he understood that. Twilight nodded.

Yor let out a breath. “And I think maybe it's harder when scared, too. Sometimes Yuri will mention something from our childhood and I have no idea what he's talking about. So I just smile and…” She shook her head. “When our parents died, Yuri was, well, he was a lot like Anya, actually. Bright and lively, and he was so, so smart. So much smarter than me, even then. But… After our parents died… It was horrible. I couldn't… I could only do my best. And that wasn't…” She smiled sadly, tilting her head. “It wasn't enough.”

Twilight had never previously had difficulty staying quiet when people wanted to tell him things: he allowed a target to speak their piece without interference. Silence was an excellent tactic for gaining information: most people loved to fill a silence. Even many of the underworld's most hardened, under the right circumstances, would run their mouths like leaky faucets. The best spies — which he was — were specialists in getting the faucets to leak before judiciously collecting every drop of water.

Yor wasn't a target. And despite the image in his mind's eye of Handler's hard stare when he couldn't tell her Yor's code name, he wasn't trying to drain Yor of intel.

What am I doing then?

Something ill-advised.

Connecting.

Suppressing a shudder, his stomach turned cold, Figure that out later, Twilight. He drew a breath, and focused on Yor.

“Yuri is bright,” Twilight told her honestly, “And lively, and very intelligent, to this day.” A serious and lethal threat, actually. Curious, how both Briars channelled their ebullience into similar but potentially oppositional pursuits. Garden's motives notwithstanding and distinct (perhaps) from Yor's, Twilight didn't consider it the compliment in Yuri's case that he considered it for Yor. “I'm certain he would say that's largely thanks to you.”

“M… Maybe. No — no, I know you're right. He would say that.” Her look turned inwards, and she murmured, “He has,” as though to reinforce the sentiment to herself.

Twilight watched her in a rising confusion.

… Have they never talked about that time?

He had never had the opportunity to discuss it with Yuri, for obvious reasons, and for some reason hadn't considered asking Yor previously. The Briar sibling bond had seemed unassailable to him since that first night. Twilight had been cautious about Yuri for his ties to the SSS and given his open hostility to Loid. Still, obviously Twilight worked at once to glean as much as he could, carefully, about the SSS, while also ensuring Loid always appeared warm towards Yuri. At least, warm at the start of every visit: open annoyance was warranted, even by Loid, upon occasion. And as Yor's brother and Loid's brother-in-law, Twilight didn't want Yor ever feeling she would have to choose between Yuri and Loid. Nor should she have any cause to worry about Loid's feelings. Far from the most complex relationship he’d had to navigate, he hadn’t needed as light a touch as he’d originally thought: while Yor loved Yuri determinedly, she wasn't ignorant of his faults.

He should have delved deeper. The extent of the Briar sibling bond would have been valuable mission intel, even before knowing Yor's profession, if only for assessing the potential impact and influence by Yor on an SSS asset.

Why didn't I dig deeper?

In answer, the slight burn in his chest, an echo of that envy from the first night he met Yuri.

Did I idealise their relationship?

Yor's expression… He had known, in the abstract, that Yor sacrificed for Yuri. Of course he had known that. And it had been reiterated by Yor throughout the course of their time together. She had told him after their first date that she hadn't had time for fun in her youth — the specific implications of that hadn't registered. He hadn't had time for fun either. The prospect of finding ways for Yor to enjoy herself had been more engaging to him than analysing what that confession had implied. Shouldn't she have had some fun with Yuri? How could she possibly, when she was an adolescent looking after a child?

Perhaps next time, Handler's voice noted dryly.

She was right. Sloppy, Twilight.

He had missed too much. Taken too much for granted. He and Yor had had their unspoken agreement not to pry, and so Twilight had accepted whatever she said, slotted his observations into known parameters of people's behaviour. And when Yor didn't fit perfectly… Well. She was extraordinary. Strange. Objectively lovely, in a way he hadn't before encountered. And he had encountered, and studied, a large number of people. Of course she wouldn't fit perfectly; the world he normally inhabited would never have had room for the person he had thought he understood Yor to be.

That she was exactly who he thought, and in dimensions he had never considered…

Something might happen.

Yor shook herself and her eyes focused on him again. I knew that sadness was there, Twilight thought, meeting her gaze. Why didn't I ever ask about it?

“Though it's more complicated than that, isn't it?” Yor asked, smiling slightly. It took Twilight a full half-second to realise she must be referring to the idea that Yuri was the person he was today was because of her. “It's like we see with Anya. She is her own person. We only… I think we only try to make it safe for her to be herself.”

Twilight stared.

Is that what I do?

… What is Operation Strix, if not trying to make the world safer?

Nodding, “After I explained that Anya seemed fine after,” he faltered, seeing Anya in his mind's eye on that bed — Say the words, Twilight, there's no benefit to being afraid of them, “Her abduction,” he cleared his throat. “My Handler said, Children are resilient when they're in loving homes.”

“Oh,” Yor murmured, her eyes damp. “Your handler seems lovely.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Twilight said, wincing. “My handler is… very good at the job.”

“Hehe,” Yor's eyes closed with her laugh, tilting her head, and a pressure in his chest eased. Her eyes opened again with a soft shine and she went on lightly, “I know what you mean, I think. I wouldn't call my mentor lovely either.”

“Did you meet your mentor after your parents passed away?”

“Oh right!” Sobering, her hands closing in her lap once more, Yor nodded, “Yes. For nearly two years, it was just me and Yuri… Our neighbours, and, and the baker who was good friends with my mother. The, um, the trappers in my father's circle. They all tried to help. At first. But the war… It. Well.”

Twilight knew. Even with his timeline somewhat obscured, he could map that he had joined up roughly around the time Yor became Yuri's caretaker, give or take a year. Revenge may have been a primary motivator for his joining, but it wasn't the only one. He'd been sick of his hunger pangs, too. Of being startled awake by cold rain drenching his body and the disgusting ground he slept on. Of having no real understanding of when or why guns fired and bombs dropped. Of being powerless, and alone, and trapped in an endless —

“Everyone was suffering,” Yor went on. Fingers cold, Twilight breathed out the stench of intractably damp ash, and breathed in the blending steam of his hot chocolate with Yor's tea. “And I didn't want to be a nuisance,” she was saying. “They all needed food and firewood, too, after all! I tried to help, too, maybe for a few dalc here or there. But eventually no one could… The Sh— my mentor, he came to visit us, or really me, one day. He wasn't unknown in Neilsberg. I… Well, I can't tell you his alias but if you heard it, um, his alias with Garden was also how he was known in Neilsberg. He moved around in civilian circles, under that name. And then, that day he came to our house.”

Twilight watched as tension in Yor's face eased. How exactly did Garden operate? Recruiting Yor at around fourteen, she had said, and yet that seemed to have been a great relief to her…?

How desperate had things gotten?

Even without knowing how Garden made its decisions in the specific, much could be gleaned from Yor's experiences. In his mind's eye, Hander's eyes glinted, and Twilight passed his hands over his thighs to rid them of a sudden prickling of sweat.

Yor smiled faintly, almost more an embarrassed wince. “I offered him tea, because that's what our mother always told us to offer guests. And biscuits, because that was our father's rule. We hadn't had any guests since their funeral and we weren’t eating much…” She swallowed. Twilight's stomach yawned in commiserative memory of hunger. “It was our last tea bag. And there were no biscuits in the cupboard. My mentor is a… I was so embarrassed to have offered something we couldn't give him but he was kind to me. He drank the tea black, because we also had no milk or sugar, and he asked how I was. He told me I could be honest. That he just wanted to know, and that there wasn't anything I could say that would be bad or get me in trouble.”

Of a sudden, Yor's hands flew to her face, a crack in her throat as she gasped. A sound caught in his own throat, Twilight leaning towards her before catching himself. He hadn't seen this from her — hiding her emotions — in some time.

That's wrong, Twilight.

She'd done it at the safehouse, folding over herself. She had shook, and breathed heavily; he'd been stuck then, too, watching her. An infuriating failure of response, slotting into a developing pattern of same. At the safehouse, it had been his fault. And he hadn't been able then to offer relief then, either.

He forced his jaw loose, swallowed against a wash of aggravation. Focus. In the present, Yor wasn't disappointed. Whatever emotion this was, it was keen, but like relief.

From behind her palms, her muffled whisper confirmed it: “No one had told me that before.”

“Yor…”

When they had hugged, the bathroom floor had been hard beneath him, and Yor's offer of comfort had been disarming nonetheless. He had many skills; comfort was not one he particularly counted among them. Comfort, true comfort, rarely had utility in his experience. The precise application of pressures to people when they were already vulnerable yielded better results for his aims than withdrawing into a delicacy of comfort.

Nonetheless, given his deficit, would the plush couch make up for it, if he sat next to Yor and offered?

She would not accept it.

Leather from the arm rests had an unsatisfying give under his hands as they tightened — Yor's back under his palms had been —

Let that go.

He stayed where he was, and said quietly, “That must have been a relief for you.”

Her hesitation was long before finally she moved. Smoothing her hands over her cheeks, Yor studied him curiously. Then, slowly, “It, it was. And I told him the truth… That I… I was scared every day. So scared that I would do something or miss something or take us into a shop at the wrong moment and Yuri would be hurt, or worse. The air raids…” Her breath shook. “My mentor, of course he wasn't my mentor yet, he told me he had a way to help me, and then I could help my brother. But that it would also be scary.” Yor smiled faintly and drew herself straight, pulling her shoulders back as her hands came to clasp neatly in her lap. “Nothing could be scarier than keeping Yuri alive. My mentor told me I would have to keep it secret. But, I already had secrets from Yuri.” Secrets? Plural? “I used to smile, so much, for Yuri. I tried to be almost always smiling, so that Yuri wouldn't worry. So he would think everything was all right. At, at least, I used to think he wouldn’t w-worry about me if only I smiled.”

Something in her voice snagged at his chest, a pit opened in his stomach, blood rushing in his ears. He had come to rely on her smiles. Even these last few days, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, Twilight breathed easier, tense muscles relaxed, his outlook lifted.

Goddamnit, he'd responded that way not ten minutes ago. The tilt of her head, the way her eyes closed, the rounding of her cheeks over the warm curve of her lips.

Had he missed something — again?

In the privacy of his mind, he shook his head. Those smiles had been true, he thought. Her laughter, too. Or as true, unfeigned, as was possible in the circumstances. He was (almost) positive of that.

But before all this… How many times had her smiles been false, like those she had given to Yuri? How many times had he taken solace or calm or something sort of like pleasure — something like? It was, Twilight. It was pleasure — from Yor's false smile and not realised it?!

“And I could barely sleep,” Yor continued. “After Yuri went to bed, sometimes it was difficult to breathe,” she pressed a hand to her chest, gripped her sweater. “But after that day. After I said yes to my mentor,” she whispered the word yes, like it was momentous. “Even Yuri noticed something had changed. Sis,” she mimicked Yuri, “You're so weird, singing and smiling to yourself all the time.” Yor laughed and Twilight resisted frowning even as Yor shook her head indulgently. “I was just so relieved! Even more when my mentor told me he could also help with Yuri! They've never met of course,” she added quickly. “But I could ask my mentor what to do sometimes, and he would give me advice. I can't tell you how much better… I was still so frightened for Yuri. And I didn't like asking too much from my mentor. But… It was everything to me. We survived, thanks to him, and thanks to Garden.”

WISE's training had given him skills to survive in a different way, built off those he'd already honed surviving in the gutter, and then in the war. But in principle, he could imagine if someone had come into his life when he was fourteen…

Envy again, Twilight?

“I didn't even really notice my training,” Yor said, and laughed as though this were silly of her. As though it didn't make sense that she would have been in such a heightened state of distress in the years leading to it, that any relief might overshadow potential other stressors, if the stressors registered at all in contrast to those before. It had taken him years to recognise the weight of the lives he had taken in the war. And under the circumstances she was living, Yor's apparent comfort with carnage may also be explained.

“My training took another, hmm… two years maybe? At least, I was around sixteen, I think, when I had my first assignment.” Absurd, to feel a stunned commiseration. His first kill had been around that same age, in the war. 

Why was he feeling unsteady? While he surreptitiously opened and closed his hands to try and quell the feeling, Yor went on heedless, “A woman who was feeding intelligence to, oh. Um. Well. To Westalis Intelligence actually.” Twilight stilled himself as she looked at him worriedly. “I, I suppose… the aims of Westalis were different then? The war had only just ended and… Um…”

“Yor,” Twilight interrupted evenly. “You don't need to sugarcoat or justify assassinating an intelligence agent.” He inclined his head. “I understand the risks of my profession.”

Yor shifted. There was something confusingly dangerous under her voice when she asked, “Does that mean… Have you… Have you almost been…”

“Killed?” When she nodded, he cleared his throat, willed his heart to steady from its unexpected uptick, and nodded. “Yes. Frequently.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop, Yor's eyes glinting as her brows pulled into a frown. Her hands pulled into fists. Her jaw tensed.

Twilight rolled his shoulders, shook his head against the aching throb in his chest. “It's nothing you need to…” There had been an edge in her voice, I choose to worry about you. It remained foreign to be worried about for his own sake, not as a valuable asset — It doesn't make sense, he thought, gritting his teeth through a more serious wash of vertigo. Changing tack, he said, “The possibility of death is a part of my job.”

Yor’s frown deepened for a beat, but then she blinked. The strange tension dropped. “I suppose… like mine,” Yor admitted quietly.

Twilight flinched.

Since learning Yor was with Garden, he'd been trying not to think about the implied risk of her work. He hadn't been… entirely successful. He kept himself as busy as possible as always, but on those nights they hadn't played chess, despite thinking he had exhausted himself enough for sleep, in the dark and the quiet, his mind had instead riffled through images from Anya's retrieval. Anya foremost. Lying insensate on that bed in the facility. Limp when he lifted her. Sobbing in Yor's arms. The blended visual and physical sensation of holding Anya against his chest as she shook. And also. Images of Yor. Specifically the moments the workers at the facility had tried to kill her, usually while she was occupied with another target.

It had happened only a handful of times. Logically, Twilight knew three things.

Firstly, each of those individuals' best chances were to attack while Yor was otherwise occupied. They would have been idiots not to take the chance, because:
Secondly, of course they were going to fight for their lives. However:
Finally and most importantly, that Yor would have dealt with them handily, even preoccupied as she'd been. Her skill had been irrefutable.

There had been virtually no risk to Yor at all. Even without his backup.

It shouldn't bother him.

But.

When his mind replayed their attempts. His lungs contracted, his heart raced, his teeth grit, and the memories of dropping each of them with a single shot was not a neutral outcome.

None of the murders he committed during Anya's retrieval had been neutral to him. His feelings had veered precariously close to the belief that murder in those instances was not a necessary tool or outcome but a righteous one.

Compromised.

If I ever begin to relish murder, he thought wearily, I'll have to retire.

His whole chest seized.

Retirement wasn't an option.

The threat of war lingered. Strix wasn't over. None of them were safe.

Get back on track, Twilight. I operated knowing I loved Yor before this, nothing should change. I can't risk anything changing.

Something might happen.

Stop.

When he looked back at her, Yor was looking into the middle distance, her mouth a thin line, brow pulled down, preoccupied herself.

“Are you… all right?” he asked.

“Oh,” Yor said, focusing on him once more. She smiled a little sadly. “I don't think I…” She breathed in slowly, out. “I hadn't considered how your… That is, I know my work is going to kill me one day —”

“You — What?”

It was like his head was suddenly encased in a block of ice.

Had she said — But was so- calm — ?

Yor waved her hands, “I'm sure it will be a quick death!” quickly, earnestly.

The arm of the chair creaked under his hold, his other hand against his solar plexus, some unthinking instinct to hold something in. His vision narrowed as he stared at her rising alarm.

Gritting his teeth, Twilight closed his eyes. What's wrong with me?

They'd been talking about death. He knew death — he had known specifically that Yor's death was a possibility, much as he had avoided thinking about it — Sloppy, prepare for everything — their work was dangerous, and if Garden was anything like WISE, they were pragmatic about their operatives. It was why he took the measures he did — 

I know my work is going to kill me one day —

Did that mean she didn't take measures to protect herself?

I'm sure it would be a quick death —

Something lurched in his chest. His stomach pitched, but it felt like it happened to someone else. How could she not protect herself?

Close-range, she had told him when he asked her speciality. He himself at mid- or long-range, ideally. He was proficient at close-range of course, but the further away, the greater chance he had of escape if needed, but if Yor preferred close-range —

“No!” Yor said urgently when he opened his eyes again. “No! L-Twilight! I mean that I wouldn't suffer! That's… That's good, right? Better than-than the alternative! And even if, if it wasn't quick, I'm fully trained in ways to —”

“Yor please,” throwing his hand up to stop her.

Now he couldn't breathe?! He had to get a hold of himself.

Nearly panting, he told himself that it was only a practical conversation about the realities of her job. Practicalities he already knew. And Yor's skills were essentially a precaution in and of themselves.

Except that wasn't true, was it? He had reflected that Yor's job would be as dangerous, likely moreso, than his own. He hadn't anticipated she would be sanguine about her own death.

If it wasn't quick, I'm fully trained in ways to —

His stomach roiled. Spots appeared in his vision.

Bracing on his knees, Breathe, Twilight.

Is Yor only good at her job for the sake of the kill, and not to protect her own life? Doesn't she want to come home?

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. He lifted his head to look at her, her hands twisting, shoulders curved in, expression transparently a mix of confusion and shock as she stared at him. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise that you.” She gulped. And: What? Cared? She didn't realise I care?!

Aren't we friends, Loid —

“No, that's not it,” Yor said as though answering his thoughts. For a wild moment he thought she might be reading his mind — another breach, was nothing his own — but that wasn't it. Yor was answering herself. Her voice was low, wobbling, “I know you care.”

It was painful to swallow. “I do,” Twilight forced out. It sounded cold to his ears, but Yor whispered, “Still,” and didn't seem to have taken his tone badly.

No, instead her gaze focused on his — he still wasn't breathing easily, but the tenor changed, the space between them charging — What the hell is going on — But Yor's lips parted as she watched him, and her eyes seemed… Wanting? You're wrong, Twilight. Look again — He had been wrong before, months ago, suggesting real marriage and she had knocked him unconscious. Never mind the times she had flinched or literally jumped away from him in this last week. Look again, Twilight.

But looking again changed nothing about his assessment. And they had flirted earlier, hadn't they? About poisons — What irony.

Yor's breath shallowed — no, he was missing something, kept missing things, misunderstanding things, his own feelings clouding his mind, and that was dangerous.

This has to stop.

Drawing a ragged breath through his mouth, Twilight broke their eyes lock, gripping his knees.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Yor shake herself. When he glanced again at her, blood was rushing into her cheeks. Raising her hands and pressing them into her cheeks, she moaned, “I didn't mean to… That wasn't why I, what I. What I meant to, to tell you. I just wanted — Twilight,” she whimpered. Eyes wide, her breath cycling faster: “Please, all I meant to — all I wanted — to tell — you — I wasn't — trying to —”

Is... Is Yor starting to panic now?

The thought cut through the gathering fog in his mind. That was a problem he could help solve.

“Take a moment. Breathe, Yor,” he said gently, firmly. “With me.”

His own breathing wasn't entirely even yet, but he forced it into rhythm, holding Yor's gaze, drawing an exaggerated deep breath. Then breathing out in equal exaggeration when Yor mimicked him. “That's good,” he affirmed, noting to consider later how her cheeks darkened again. “Again,” he instructed, drawing a breath, letting it out slowly.

How many times had he done this with patients at the hospital? It was something he should have done at the safehouse — something he should have been practising throughout this whole conversation instead of letting himself get carried away.

That had been one of the earliest signs. Getting carried away by Yor, carried away when anything outside his anticipations happened with Yor… A sign that his feelings were compromised from very early on in their arrangement. He had thought he was better equipped of late. That had been a large part of the reason he had accepted that he loved her.

Then again, he conceded ruefully, it had been a difficult week.

“Let's do that again,” Twilight murmured, keeping his eyes steady on Yor's as they inhaled slowly together. “Good,” he nodded, and together, they exhaled.

In, he held her eyes.

Out, she held his.

In. She was so important.

Out. Why didn't she want to come home?

In. Her eyes were wide, imploring, and — What was he missing?

Out. A question for another time.

In. Her lips parted.

Out. Her flush faded. 

In. The muscles around her eyes softened.

Out. Her shoulders eased.

In. Her eyes closed, and opened, as she breathed out, more calm.

Out. He was out of sync with her.

Out. It hurt.

Out.

Out.

Out.

Out.

“I'm sorry,” Yor breathed. “Usually, on my own, I can… I'm sorry.”

Twilight shook his head. “It's all right. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry I upset you.”

“You upset me —?”

“You were fine before I,” Got carried away, “Interrupted.”

She didn't seem to know how to parse this, but her exquisite manners served her once more. Retreating into them, she said sincerely, “There's nothing to forgive.”

Were manners part of her training, he wondered, letting his mind move on from lingering disquiet, ignoring his unsettled stomach. A good default position, for someone who doesn't, or didn't, understand social interactions… It would allow her to pass largely unnoticed, a beautiful woman with impeccable manners might be forgiven other faux pas if such were even recognised. A form of social armour and social disguise, and especially clever for Yor, who would find comfort in the kindness and general positivity of polite interactions, even while they created a distance that would insulate from questions, and might isolate…

… A distance that might isolate, and therefore hurt, someone as loving as Yor.

… Consider that later, Twilight.

He answered her seriously, “Thank you.”

Yor bit her lip. Then, uncertainly, “Should I… continue?”

“Please do.” The marshmallows were long melted, the hot chocolate Yor made for him gone cold, but he didn't really taste it anyway. Please continue. He set the mug back down. So that last thing we discuss tonight isn't your anticipated death.

Notes:

I've also updated the chapter count, though given this and the next chapter were meant to be one, it's possible I'll increase it again 😨😅 And a head’s up for a title change! I’ll leave it as is this & the next update, then will be changing it to “common love.” This is taken from Dua Lipa's Physical, and I'll explain in full at the end of the fic. I liked the original name but I confess I was never 100% satisfied with it AND ALSO it was a mouthful! A type-ful? It was wordy, is my point. This one is easier :D

By the rules of the Big Bang, I have to finish posting at the latest in December! I'm in pretty good shape, so barring unforeseen snarls, I anticipate fairly regular updates through to the end! Those of you who've been awaiting an update, I’m truly honoured. Thank you so much for your patience and I hope the wait was worth it. To folks who are new to the fic, welcome! I hope you've enjoyed so far. I'm stoked to roll through for the rest of this beastie 😊

 

As always, I'd love to hear from you ☕️🍪

Chapter 14

Summary:

Yor continues her story. Twilight makes a request.

Notes:

My very many thanks to countrymint & briefhottubcoffee for this chapter remain virtually identical to last chapter! Including an extra helping to countrymint for last minute read of edits and discussion 💕

Minor content warnings for this chapter again

Another panic attack, in this instance culminating in the character throwing up. This is not lingered upon or described in detail.

Feeling strangely hot, his mouth was tacky, dry, as though he’d had something sour. He shouldn’t have put his mug down. Passing the back of his hand across his forehead, he was surprised to find sweat there. He felt Yor’s eyes on him as he pushed his sleeves up. It didn’t — now he felt chilled?

Tugging them back down again, he forced himself to concede the physiological signs of ongoing distress. This is bad, Twilight. Tapping into training he hadn’t used in years, Twilight pulled his attention into his mind. His body could do what it needed to and he would tend to it later. Now, he would focus on Yor.

Who swallowed when he met her gaze, her hands clasping in her lap once more. Twilight dropped his hand back to the chair, forced both hands loose.

Visibly gathering herself, Yor said, “What had I been…” Then her eyes flashed to his, brow pulled down — a flash of ice through his body. Twilight suppressed it. Yor shook her head. “It — W-what I was trying to… To say. Is that I, I took my mentor up on his offer for Yuri‘s sake, so Yuri could have…” She tilted her head. “Everything? With the money from my work with Garden, we had enough food, and heating in the winter, and light for Yuri to do his homework by, to read by, oh and books. The librarian in town died when he was caught in a air raid visiting relatives in Berlint. I… I’m not entirely certain what happened to the books in the library after that, but we didn’t have access to them. Yuri was so curious. Wanting to learn, learn, learn! So after the necessities, I saved up so I could get him the books he wanted…” Yor’s expression went distant, and she smiled slightly. “Like how you buy all those books for Anya,” she added, and for some reason, Twilight’s stomach cramped.

Yor went on, “But my mentor also talked to me about, about philosophy. And history. Garden is old,” she told him, her eyes shining slightly, her shoulders pulling back. Pride, Twilight thought. To be part of such an organisation. He filed that observation away for later. “Garden began during the old empire,” she added. That seemed unlikely, but it did make for a good story. Especially for an organisation that traded so much on mystique and mythology. “It was a way to help people covertly, he said. My mentor likes the metaphor of the garden very much. We work to keep things beautiful. To remove what harms, so that hopefully others can… can thrive. That world isn’t for us,” she said quickly, as though to correct some misapprehension of Twilight’s, as though he might think poorly of her if she were to want such a thing for herself, even as something pensive entered her voice, even as her eyes settled on him in a way he didn’t understand, almost wistful, her cheeks colouring faintly again. “But my mentor says we can help at least!” She paused. “I see things a little differently? I think… What I wanted at first was to protect Yuri. To keep him… naive, in a way, of how awful some things in the world are, for as long as possible. He knows, of course, how our parents died. But he didn’t see…” Twilight watched, tension coiling in his shoulders — Ignore that, Twilight. Listen — as Yor shook herself again before she went on, “My mentor promised me that I would be able to help protect Yuri’s world, by cleansing the world of the people who create tragedy. So Yuri would never know another tragedy.”

I know my work is going to kill me one day —

That Yor didn’t consider her own death to be a tragedy — a shard lodged in his chest. Were he in less control, he might lose the rhythm of his breathing again. He might follow irrational impulse, and check his chest for an open wound.

Yor drew his attention back, gesturing between herself and Twilight. “A few weeks after we began our… our arrangement, I got an assignment.” Her mouth tugged down. Not in upset, he thought. It seemed more considering than upset. “To… To protect someone. A, a woman and her son. I hadn’t had an assignment like that before. To protect people so… directly? And I realised… Well. It reminded me, I… I realised that I wanted to protect Yuri, and my client. But I also wanted to protect Anya and… You… Too. Loid. That is…” She trailed away, and Twilight rejected impulse to lean forward, to draw nearer to her. Yor whispered, “I thought back then that you, that you both had carefree lives. And I wanted to protect them,” something embarrassed passed over her features, she pulled her hands tight to her chest. “I know that’s… silly, I, I suppose, now.” Not at all, he nearly said, his voice in his head too fond. “But it’s… That’s what I wanted. No,” she murmured, shaking her head. Meeting his eyes again, determination brightening her eyes. His heart thumped heavily. Twilight ignored it. Ignored the twitch in his still-chilled fingers when Yor went on firmly, “It’s still what I want. But I know it isn’t carefree… But I think Anya’s life is easier now, than it was, don’t you think?”

Twilight hesitated.

Was Anya's life easier…?

She's been fostered out and returned four times, Franky had said. Got transferred out of two other orphanages too.

In that way at least, Anya’s life was easier. She knew where she was falling asleep and where she would wake up. They kept their home tidy. Anya was warm and well-fed, with nearly as many toys and books and clothes as she wanted. From Yor, Anya received love and affection. Barring catastrophic fallout with Yor (which seemed increasingly improbable, though he would take nothing for granted) Strix was unlikely to end anytime soon, so Anya’s home life would remain steady until then.

A second spin of vertigo clenched his teeth — What the hell?

Blinking against it, he considered beyond bare necessities. He had found the avenue to Donovan more fruitful through Melinda than Damian so had eased with Plan B almost entirely, insofar as he’d overtly pressured Anya at all after the initial punch and apology. (A thought struck him sharply: she would have known, wouldn’t she, about Plan B from his thoughts? He would need to discuss that with her, at some point, once things had settled. Once his body stopped revolting.) On Stellas, it had become abundantly clear that WISE’s four month estimate to attain all eight had been a gross underestimate. Anya had more than any of her peers mostly through fluke and situations no child should anticipate let alone endure. He ensured she completed her homework, that she studied, and he encouraged her to behave at school in ways that would avoid receiving yet another Tonitrus Bolt. If she showed interest in another Stella, he wouldn’t dissuade her, would help her as best he could. Those things were normal children things, he was fairly certain. She may not always like it (not ever like it, he thought wryly) but they were signs of a better life than the one she’d had.

“I think… That we’ve… done our best,” he answered quietly, borrowing Yor’s frequent phrasing as a strange weariness pulled at his eyes. He disregarded it until later.

Yor nodded, went on, “But she also… Her life hadn’t been carefree, had it? Before? And I wish she hadn’t ever known anything else,” she said fervently.

Is that what this feeling is?

A world where children don’t have to cry — how often had Anya cried?

Stay with Papa? her small hands tight in the collar of his shirt, pulling it uncomfortably into the back of his neck as they arrived at the safehouse — Stay with Papa, he had affirmed to her. And meant it. In that moment. He had trusted Yor to check on the safehouse instead of doing it himself, hadn’t he? He had stayed. Anya had stayed. Because she had asked him to.

Before Papa adopted Anya, Anya went with people before Papa. But they sent Anya back.

Ice swallowed him. A full-body flush burned him.

Yor was right. Anya should never have known anything else. She should always have had a safe, warm, happy, loving home —

Children are resilient when they’re in loving homes —

I know my work is going to kill me one day —

He stopped himself from burying his face in his hands but, What am I going to do?

Then, heedless of the course of his thoughts, just as fervently as she had spoken about Anya, Yor said, “And I wish you had a carefree life, too, Loid- Twilight.” 

All breath left him.

Stop this, Twilight —

Shifting, he forced himself to breathe normally. To ignore the way a storm was brewing between his temples. Trying to displace a fomenting unease, exacerbated with every casual reference Yor made to her care for him.

Jaw tight, Twilight swallowed. It was the specificity of it that was the problem. That it was an informed care, generated from knowledge she had of him — No, Twilight. From knowledge she thought she had of him, things she attributed to him, rightly or wrongly, but not the generalised care in the way Yor offered her heart to most who crossed her path —

“Although I s-suppose I don’t know… I don’t know what… well it’s just, you want a world where children don't have to cry,” Goddamnit, “And I think… I think that maybe that’s because of something you experienced?”

The silence in their living room was deafening.

A question. A statement.

Twilight swallowed.

No one had read him that way in longer than he could remember. Even Handler hadn’t gotten that out of him, and he had given a key to Yor freely. No one knew as much about him as Yor now did.

As Yor thought she did —

No. She does know more than anyone else alive —

His heart raced. Queasiness roiled. He was pushing the sleeves of his sweater up before he realised it, hot again, and another pass of his hand across his forehead found more sweat.

The last time he’d felt this ill…

Was the first night at the safehouse. Thinking about Anya, and all that her file had detailed was done to her, Anya's willful, unwitting, ongoing violation of his mind and all that entailed. The mess that was everything he felt about Yor in conflict with every mistrustful, hurt, angry, desperate look she had given him since he’d turned a gun on her that same day. All his mistakes.

The last seven days had been too much for any person. He sought perfection, seeking out each imperfection that needed managing or fixing or snuffing out, without sacrificing every shred of his humanity. To that end, no one who maintained their humanity regardless of any else would be entirely unaffected by the week the Forger household had just endured.

He knew that, intellectually. That had always been enough: Knowing, intellectually. He needed to deal with things eventually; but eventually had always been in a manner of his choosing, at a time of his choosing.

Later, always later. Later, and on his own.

But Yor had found him at the safehouse. Kneeling on the cold tile next to the toilet and she hadn’t turned away, she hadn’t scoffed, or laughed, or made him feel worse, or saved it to use against him later.

No. All she had done was kneel with him, and hold him —

Tightening his hands on the arms of the chair, it took all his will to suppress a shudder.

Yor had been right, days ago, to challenge him to rest. He had been struggling, before Anya's kidnapping.

Exhausted. Frustrated. An encroaching, increasing —

He hadn’t named it then. It wasn’t worth naming it now.

And Yor sat —

When did I close my eyes? He didn’t know how she was. How she was holding herself, or looking at him, or what her expression was. Eyes squeezed shut, he wasn’t looking at her. When did I stop? How long ago?

What is my face doing?

Was his breathing as loud as it seemed in his ears?

What had she asked?

It was barely a question. Less a question than a statement, and nothing more than a lilt to indicate her uncertainty, to turn it into a question to answer if he wanted it to be —

I wish you had a carefree life, too —

Stop.

You want a world where children don’t have to cry —

He’d told her that. It had been his choice. It had been partially a manipulation — he’d thought it likely she would respond favourably, trust him again, if only marginally. But what he’d told her then, too, had been true. He had wanted her to know.

Fuck. Why?

Worse: That Yor knew, that she said it out loud, as though it were something to speak about and not something that needed to be closely held and tightly guarded —

She might demonstrate her exacting skills on his entrails while he watched and she would never lay him more bare that with that one sentence.

— maybe that’s because of something you experienced?

His stomach lurched violently. He was hot. His eyes watered.

He was going to be sick.

If he left now without word, would they recover? Would the damage to Strix be irreparable?

Would Yor forgive him?

“Twilight,” Yor's voice sounded nearby.

Even my name — every time she says it — like she understands what it means —

“Twilight,” again, closer, and Twilight heaved a breath in, forced his eyes open. Yor’s concerned face filled his vision: exaggeration borne from his loss of control — seventy centimetres separated them, at least — ‘at least?’ Can’t I be more precise?! — and Yor said calmly, “If you need to throw up, I’ve brought you a pail.”

“How —”

Gripping the pail, he heaved.

Yor did him the courtesy of murmuring something about getting him water and leaving him to some privacy as she went to the kitchen.

This is unconscionable, Twilight —

Twice now.

The first time, he’d managed to govern himself at least until Yor had fallen asleep. He had even thought he'd gotten away with it, until Yor had pushed into the safehouse bathroom. But this time —

How had she known?

Panting, arm pressing into the rim of the pail, he tapped into his training to block out the scent of his vomit. At least it worked this time, he thought irritably. His forehead was hot, sweaty against the bared skin of his forearm.

Fuck.

Forcing himself to open his eyes, Yor had lined the bucket. Of course she had. Easier to dispose of; less to clean.

Why does that…

He wasn’t sure what it did. It was a detail that opened something in his chest, strong enough for several heartbeats to overwhelm the queasy tumult of his stomach. His eyes burned as he blinked, staring at the splattered lining.

“Are you…” Yor trailed off uncertainly beside him. Then, “I can, um, leave again, if, if that’s- better?”

Squeezing his eyes shut for another breath, Twilight said quietly, “No,” and made himself lift his head. He should have done that sooner; taken a moment to wipe his mouth, just in case.

But this was Yor, who raised her brother, a young child, when she was barely out of childhood herself. Who almost instantly stepped into the role of raising Anya, her whole heart on the line for a child she had only just met. More to the point, who killed people for a living, conversant in all that entailed.

And who had seen him, like this, before, in any case.

She reached for the pail but Twilight twitched it out of her range. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough, throat scratchy, “But I’ll clean this.”

“Okay,” Yor whispered. Then she passed him a glass of water, moving past him to take her seat on the couch once more.

The water was cool across his tongue, against the roof of his mouth, in his cheeks. Before drinking the lot, he swished the first sip, spitting it into the pail, setting the pail on the ground. Mouth tasting less stale, Twilight drank the rest, the water soothing down his throat, and settled, a welcome cool in his stomach, helping him ground himself.

… I don’t know what to do next. I don’t know what to do with myself.

It took a great deal of control to suppress the alarm at that thought.

What is this feeling?

Filing through memories of the behaviours of other people gave the answer.

Awkwardness.

When was the last time I felt awkward?

With an echo of the satisfaction of a piece falling into place, he recognised in hindsight shades of awkwardness since Strix began. But to this degree… he couldn’t be sure.

Twilight sighed. What was there to do, but to let himself show it, passing a hand down his face.

This really was all unacceptable. He had slipped previously in front of Yor, before all of this —

He had been about to think that none had been so bad as this, but he’d been knocked out by Yor once, otherwise passed out or collapsed how many times? Surely spontaneous loss of consciousness due to unmanaged overwhelm was worse than being sick.

Twilight sighed again. Raised his eyes to find Yor’s face. She looked nearly as awkward as he felt.

“I don’t know —” he began at the same moment Yor blurted, “I’m sorry I —”

Twilight shook his head. “Please don’t apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Hesitating, Twilight admitted slowly, “But I… don’t know what to say.”

Somehow with that admittance, a course opened in his mind. Before she could respond, he went on quietly, “And it irks me, not knowing… In my work, I always have to know what to say. Even if what I say is wrong, that’s usually not a problem. I have at least a handful of alternatives, diversions, digressions, distractions…” Yor looked as though she didn’t know how she should feel about that, and she had said something to him about that before, hadn’t she? She had asked him why he wasn’t allowing her to speak… Mistake after mistake after mistake. He was supposed to know what to do, what to say. Twilight drew a breath. Perhaps it would be best to draw on further of his training? As Yor retreated to her manners, could he retreat into pragmatism?

He shifted in his seat. His mind itched. He was wrung out.

“I’ve made mistakes with you before… But my training and my…” He’d cleaned his mouth but as bile rose to the back of his throat, his teeth snapped shut. Something you experienced, Yor had said. What a mild way to describe it. But what other word was there, to gesture towards the unknown. It wasn’t as though, even to himself, he ever referred directly to that time of his life. He didn’t look back at it unless it was necessary.

And how often had it ever been necessary? Until now?

Say the word, Twilight. “My training and my- experiences make it difficult to speak about my past.” That was an inadequate explanation. He didn’t even have to analyse Yor’s expression to know that; it felt inadequate to himself.

What is the aim here, Twilight?

I believe you, Yor had said after he had told her his goals.

I choose to trust you. I choose to worry about you.

To Franky, You helped to keep Twilight safe and I'm grateful to you for that.

And, Twilight, Twilight, Twilight, like it was natural for her to say. Like she knew what it meant. Like she enjoyed saying it.

His stomach twisted, but he had regained at least enough control that he was 98% certain Yor wouldn’t know, that it hadn’t shown in his body, on his face.

He’d finally realised the problem: the concept of revealing more of himself than he already had. No, it was more than that. It was Yor already knowing what felt like too much.

Intellectually, he knew it was barely anything. Certainly not enough to be identifiable to anyone who might hurt him.

Knowing intellectually was apparently no longer sufficient.

“Yor,” he murmured. Could he manage one more explanation?

In his mind’s eye, he once again saw her face in the moment she realised he couldn’t answer her at the safehouse — Aren’t we friends, Loid —

He couldn’t face that again.

Drawing from his deepest reserves, he began slowly, “No one has known me in more than twenty years.” His tones shifted register with each word he spoke, as though he were delivering a situation report. And why not, Twilight…? It was a situation; he determined it needed reporting. So that Yor would understand what to expect. And not look at him with that profound hurt again. Not until it was inescapable.

Strix.

As with any situation report, accuracy was invaluable. So decisions could be made. That was also what Yor wanted, wasn’t it? Connection, yes, and each reiteration of I choose —

She deserved that, where it was possible.

So he specified, “Or more precisely, in over twenty years, no one has known as much about me as you now do. It hasn’t been safe. For me. And. I'm finding it… It’s difficult to tell you more.” He drew a breath. Held her gaze and let her study his expression, his eyes, though he had retreated, had found something mostly neutral. It still felt inadequate, and not right in a way he couldn’t identify. And Twilight was certain Yor would see through it, at least to an extent. So was there any reason not to admit the rest?

Only sanity.

He already knew he was failing, incrementally, as a spy. But what sort of spy was he, if he couldn’t navigate the fallout of a single crystalline truth?

He admittedly quietly, “It’s. Not… Not because I don’t. Want. To.”

Yor sighed softly. And from somewhere, Twilight couldn’t imagine where, she summoned a soft smile limned pensive.

She hummed thoughtfully. Then murmured, “I don’t think there has been anything to know about me at all, for the last… fifteen years. Or so. Maybe ever.” She shrugged, her smile somehow growing. “There’s hardly anything to know now.”

Silence hung between them, putting him in mind to the eerie hush in the wake of a bomb drop. That stunned silence before the people left alive started to understand what had happened.

Intellectually, he understood why she said that.

“That’s not true, Yor,” Twilight said lowly.

An emotion crossed her expression that twisted keenly low in his belly but before Twilight could say more, Yor clasped her hands in her lap and sat taller. “W-what do you want to do?” Then she shook her head. “That’s not… I only mean, what do you need to fee- to be- to make it easier…?”

“Space.”

He had meant to prevaricate. To orchestrate a distancing between them in such a way that Yor may not notice it, or in the least…

In the least, what, Twilight? Doubt herself? Question what was happening? More than she already was?

For fuck’s sake…

He added reluctantly, “And, some time.”

“Space,” Yor repeated. “And time.” For a moment, anxious dread flowed through his body, a yawning sense of anticipatory loss, but Yor only tipped her head, touched her knuckle to her chin. “Mmm… Do you mean, physical space? Or space from… from me? Or,” she looked at him again, met his eyes cautiously. “Or from these… these, um, conversations?”

His stomach cramped, but —

“These conversations,” he owned.

“I see,” Yor whispered.

Should I apologise?

No, that would make it worse. And there isn’t anything to apologise for: in this instance. If Yor is to know — Twilight breathed through a band tightening around his lungs, through a spell of lightheadedness — If Yor is to know anything else about me, then this is the only way.

“All right,” she said, sitting straighter.

“All… right?”

Yor nodded.

That was…

“I know you have more questions.” Twilight frowned. It was incomprehensible; she didn’t even seem upset that he was putting her off again. “And I think you have more you want to tell me, too.” Yor blushed, embarrassment crossing her features — not wanting to linger, Twilight bulled on, “How is my request acceptable to you?”

“Oh. Um…” She bit her lip, and squirmed. Then shook her head and said, “I’m sorry if this upsets you,” Upsets me? “But I’d already guessed you may need time.”

It wasn’t upsetting, precisely, in lieu of everything else. It did make his vision blur momentarily.

Was there more she knew? He thought he’d worked out the shape of her knowledge, but —

“But can I… Can I ask one… One more thing?” Studying her, Twilight thought Yor looked — frightened? Nervous? What could she possibly want to ask?

Twilight nodded warily as Yor waved her hands in the air. Saying urgently, “It isn’t about you! Not… Well not exactly? It’s… It’s just. It’s — You… You don’t seem to, to… About what I’ve told you, Garden and what I… Why I… Does it, does it bother- you?”

“Bother me…?” Obviously her acceptance of her own death was something that, strictly speaking, ‘bothered him.’ But the particulars of her reasons and her job? Twilight shook his head. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

“How is that possible,” she breathed, almost brokenly, “How can you just accept… Me?”

He huffed softly. That was the easiest question she had asked.

He wasn't about to tell her that he loved her, but that wasn’t the sole reason in any case.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I have from the beginning. Although then of course I accepted your cover story.”

“But that —”

“Wasn’t everything, I know.” Twilight eased his shoulders down. He was worn out, but these were truths he didn’t mind reiterating. “Yor, you told me that you agreed to the work because you thought it could prevent tragedy. If I hadn’t already understood — no. Admired, your dedication to Yuri, I would have admired that. As it is, you started doing something for your brother, and decided you wanted to continue in order to protect…” He swallowed, holding her gaze as her eyes rounded. “You wanted to do what you could to keep other people from being hurt, too.” He hesitated. “You sacrificed, you continue to sacrifice, a great deal in service to a goal outside yourself. All that’s changed is that I know the particulars.”

She stood abruptly. As when she had done that at the safehouse, Twilight tipped his head back to hold her gaze.

If he didn’t know better, he would think the way her hands were tense, fingers spread, by her sides, the way her chest was rising and falling quickly on breaths she took from parted lips, the forward cant of her body, would all indicate she wanted to reach for him.

Two days ago she had launched herself two metres back when she accidentally and very lightly stepped on his toe in the kitchen. Four days ago, she took three steps back when he raised his hand slowly, a bare indication he might touch her hand in comfort.

Yor doesn’t want touch.

She wants…

“Yes, Yor. I accept you.”

Yor dropped — alarmed, Twilight pushed to his feet — but she had only dropped to a crouch, her face buried in her knees as she poised on her feet.

It took all his limited remaining willpower to keep from moving over to her, to keep from crouching beside her, and — and doing something she wouldn’t like.

Fists tight, after a moment he managed, “Do you… want some tea?”

“No,” Yor gasped. “I want yo—” she cut herself off, shook her head vigorously. Twilight waited, frowning, mounting confusion and alarm, and frustration as his hands tightened compulsively —

Finally, wetly, she said, “Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Another wet breath and, “Then… Then let’s — you sh-should go to bed.”

Staring down at her, Twilight hesitated. What does she really want? ‘I want yo-’ Yo, as in You? What did she want me to do? He couldn’t make sense of it. Why didn’t she finish her thought? He couldn’t imagine Yor would request anything he was incapable of doing. Her requests were always so small and so simple.

I don’t understand.

But even thwarted, he had the sense that she agreed to his offer of tea more for his sake than her own. And her urging for him to go rest…

He swallowed painfully around a lump in his throat. He murmured, “All right. Tea first,” and went to the kitchen, setting the kettle on the hob.

Notes:

Up-to-date manga readers: HOW ABOUT THAT CHAPTER 120, EH?

 

Shoutout to fellow Whovians, were you also mentally flung into the TARDIS with Twilight asking for space and time? ✌️

Otherwise, a reminder that with the next update will come a fic title change! 'common love' will be what appears in the tag or in your inbox ♥

 

As always, thank you so much for reading & I'd love to hear your thoughts 🌌🕰️

Chapter 15

Summary:

“Sometimes it pays being the bigger monster,” Franky insisted.

Notes:

Fic title shift! What once was it's only me, what have you got to lose? is now common love!

Another content warning for this chapter, but then there won't be any for at least a few 😮‍💨

Due to the nature of it, I'll specify that Anya has a panic attack when discussing her experience of being kidnapped; it is brief and not lingered upon, and Twilight is there to help calm and soothe her.

Headache. Nausea. Brain fog. A pervasive fatigue he wasn’t able to shake.

He hadn’t been hung over in over a decade, but he remembered what it was like, and it was remarkably similar to how he felt today.

An emotional hangover…?

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Twilight leaned into his elbows on his desk. If he were actually Loid Forger, this would be difficult but tolerable. It was Friday, after all. Friday for the average upper-middle class worker meant the end of the work week and start of the weekend. Return home to a warm welcome and a good sleep. And even two weeks previously, Twilight may have felt similarly, barring the sleep part.

Which isn’t a good thing, Twilight! The Forgers were never meant to be anything other than a necessity to securing his mission objectives. They were never meant to start being positively anticipated. He even had the passing image in his mind’s eye of taking an afternoon nap.

He was Twilight. Westalis’ best spy. He did not nap.

But ever since Yor had urged him, weeks ago, to take cues from a languid cat, a potent image, especially of Yor…

He was never meant to fall in love, for fuck’s sake.

He wasn't ever meant to feel that nigh indescribable parental fidelity to Anya.

He wasn’t meant to start wanting to be ‘home.’ Park Avenue was as much a cover as anything else.

And it was. Regardless of all the rest, the Forgers, Park Avenue, still very much were covers. There were still direct and indirect lines to his mission objectives, and they were all of them entangled in Strix, which was immeasurably more difficult now…

And, the part of him that ceaselessly evaluated, calculated, accounted for resources lost and resources available to him, that part of him noted that Strix had become potentially less difficult, in key ways.

Sighing, Twilight pushed back in his chair. He had promised Anya when he dropped her off at Eden that morning that he would pick her up after school as well. Only five hours to go.

And before that, Franky at midday. What that man would have to say without Yor present… Twilight forcibly unclenched his teeth.

He hadn’t had caffeinated coffee in months, and it was a bad idea, given how unsettled his stomach was, his head already ached —

Soft.

A sharp shake of his head: he needed to be able to think and to work, and caffeine would, at least temporarily, clear the brain fog.

 

---

 

Tugging his hat down to better shade his eyes from the noon sunlight, Twilight leaned back against Franky's newsstand, knocking on the counter top.

“Be with you in a sec!” Franky called in his most solicitous tones.

He hasn’t realised it’s me, yet, then…

Taking the brief reprieve, Twilight closed his eyes. Let the sounds of the street wash over him. People out for lunch, for shopping, walking to and fro their workplaces or meetings or…

Was that the sort of life he would have wanted, if his life had taken a different path?

He couldn’t imagine it. His cover as a psychiatrist was just about enough to keep his mind engaged. If he didn’t have so many side missions, he may even find it satisfying alongside Strix. Any other office job… Acting as Robert had been nearly mind-numbingly dull. Though Robert had been low ranking, perhaps a higher ranking official would be interesting enough…?

No. He had no patience for the specific sorts of slow moving negotiations or malicious political machinations that occurred in politics. Snorting, he shook his head and opened his eyes as he heard Franky finally emerging. As though WISE, and by extension Twilight himself, wasn’t constantly involved in various political machinations… malicious was a subjective descriptor. Certainly many Ostanian politicians would consider WISE’s actions to be malicious.

“Ahhh, Loid,” Franky said, caution colouring his voice.

Twilight turned. He didn’t particularly like how Franky was looking at him. His headache reasserted itself sharply in his right temple.

“Did you get the paper in?” Twilight asked, friendly tones. Anyone who overheard would think he was enquiring after a specific newspaper. Such as the one Franky pulled out onto the counter, the local paper for Loid Forger’s hometown. It wasn’t the dominant reason Twilight had chosen that town, but their local paper was conveniently the perfect size for hiding files.

Franky's smile was tense. “Good timing! It arrived about half an hour ago.”

Twilight's eyebrow twitched. “Was it that difficult to get a hold of?”

“Ah,” Franky said, raising his hand to the back of his neck. A quick glance and he leaned forward, elbow casually on the counter between them. With a flick of his fingers, he beckoned Twilight to lean in. Reluctant, Twilight complied. “This was trickier than I expected. Did you read the other files?”

“Obviously.”

“So you know their treatment of the others was markedly different to Anya’s. You’ve got a good spread here, enough that it should ensure Anya’s file isn’t flagged as abnormal — assuming certain things. Like how many files there are total.” Franky tapped the top of the paper hiding the fourteen files Twilight had taken from the lab. “These might still stand out.” That had always been a possibility. Any attempt to fool WISE’s analysts was going to be a risk.

Franky leaned closer, and the apprehension on his face did nothing to ease Twilight’s headache. Franky hissed, “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better for these files to just never turn up?”

“No,” Twilight said, tucking the newspaper and its files into an inner pocket of his coat.

“No? No what?”

“No, I’m not sure.”

Franky stared at him. His jaw hadn’t dropped but that seemed only out of an uncharacteristic display of self-discipline. Have I really never expressed doubt in front of Franky…?

No, not never. But perhaps not often since their very first conversation.

Twilight held Franky’s gaze unfalteringly and eventually Franky blew out a long breath. “Fuck. This really has done a number on you, huh? Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

Before Twilight could unclench his jaw, Franky asked in an undertone, “How is the kid, anyway?”

“She seems fine,” Twilight told him, just as perturbed by it now, four days after he had reported the same to Handler.

“You think she’s not?”

Twilight released a breath and turned around again, leaning back on his elbows against the counter. “I don’t see how she can be.” He shook his head, pushing to his feet. “Anyway, see you later.”

“Oi! Hold on!”

Twilight looked down at the hand Franky had wrapped around his elbow. He turned slowly to look at Franky. Who released him quickly, his hands in the air. “There’s one more thing!” Franky snapped, beckoned Twilight close again.

With a heavy sigh, Twilight leaned in.

“Have you considered that Anya’s fine because she knows you’re a spy and Yor’s an assassin?” In other circumstances, Twilight would have been amused by the way Franky's voice dropped to nearly nothing in referencing Yor and her profession. “Maybe it’s a relief that you guys are… you know. Who you are.”

As it was… “Why,” Twilight grit out, “Would that be a relief to her?”

Franky stared at him. Twilight was getting tired of him doing that. “Who else could safely retrieve her from that kind of facility?” Franky nodded to the side of Twilight’s coat, where the files sat. “Who else would try? Hell, man!” Franky threw his hands in the air. “Who else would accept her being a —” Twilight hissed and Franky finished, “Being as she is?”

Could it be that straight forward?

Twilight shook his head, his stomach churning. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sometimes it pays being the bigger monster,” Franky insisted. “From the reports I heard about that place… It was you and Yor on the Thursday, right? When it first got hit?” Twilight nodded stiffly. Franky looked at Twilight as though he should be getting something; whatever it was, he had no idea. Franky’s expression shifted, like he wanted to strangle Twilight. The longer the conversation went on, the more Twilight felt the same about Franky.

Franky sighed and said tightly, “I don’t know how much Anya knows about what went down —”

“She was drugged and unconscious,” Twilight said. Perverse, to be thankful for that.

“Right, so she doesn’t know the details. And good,” No kidding. “But she’ll know enough. She got snatched. By people who'd done…” Franky blanched, his eyes darting to the folders in Twilight’s jacket. “She was scared. She was fuckin’ drugged. And then when she woke up, there were her super spy and super assassin Papa and Mama. You don’t think that kid might feel safer in the world with the two of you in her corner? She can read your minds. She knows what you both do. She has from the start, man.”

Why is my heart pounding?

His breathing wasn’t even either. He didn’t think Franky would notice but —

“Thanks for your input,” Twilight said without inflection, then he turned on his heel, raising an hand in farewell as he walked away, ignoring Franky’s outraged squawk.

 

---

 

The first flash of Anya’s pink hair eased a tension all through his body. It had been the same all week: stress gathering as soon as he watched Anya through the school gates. The relief of it as soon as she walked back in the door at home.

Is this how it will be from now on?

And a voice he didn’t acknowledge, responding, Is that so bad?

“How was school today?” he asked, twisting to watch as Anya got into the back seat and squirmed into position.

The first time he had driven Anya anywhere in this car, the unruly flick of hair on the top of her head barely reached the bottom of the window. Her Eden uniform cap added several inches, of course, but even with that it was clear Anya had grown. Why didn’t I track her growth?

“Anya painted,” she told him, showing her palms after she had buckled in. Paint splatters still staining her palms, up the inside of her fingers. “The girl is getting a sleep needle.”

Twilight’s focus sharpened. Mercilessly curtailing the impulse to run through possible reasons for Anya painting something like that, mindful that Anya may have been listening to his thoughts, he asked, “What does the sleep needle do?”

She stared at him for a beat, then, as though he were an idiot to ask, she told him, “It makes her sleep.”

“Why did you paint that, Anya?”

Anya stilled, hesitated. Then, “No reason.”

Twilight watched her. Anya watched him in turn. Her hands balled into fists, her chin jutting —

There was no point lingering in the Eden car park.

Twilight turned forward, turning the engine on, releasing the clutch and shifting the car into gear. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he ignored the renewed twist in his stomach. Yor had told him that Anya had wanted to play a game rescuing a kidnapped princess… The metaphor there had been clear, and this, too, seemed indicative.

Twilight slid a glance to Anya again in the rear view mirror. “Say, Anya. Yor is going to be home a little late tonight. Do you want to go get cake?”

Anya’s happy gasp filled the car, and Twilight let her rhapsodise about which type of cake she would get, and as she chatted away, he let himself think about how best to ask her more details once they were home.

And made a note that exhorting Anya to chat became, in essence, a way for him to guard his thoughts, as she got carried away with her own thoughts and wouldn’t have space for his.

 

---

 

“Papa’s being sneaky,” Anya said unexpectedly as Twilight pushed another forkful of cake around on his plate.

“Huh?”

“In Papa’s thoughts, you’re waiting for Anya to finish eating.”

He quickly quashed a flare of aggravation, and drew a breath. “Mm, well…” He glanced at her plate. Nearly there. A small distraction… “It looks like it might be kind of tasty. Is it good?”

“It’s exquicksit!” Anya stabbed her fork, swooping a bite into her mouth.

Twilight forced himself to take a bite of his own, murmuring, “I’m glad to hear it.”

Washing it down with a sip of hot cocoa, Anya finally finished, and Twilight tousled her hair. Abandoning his own cake, he stood, saying, “Stay there, please,” as he took both plates to the kitchen. Then he retrieved her backpack and held it up for her.

“Anya, please can you show me the painting you did today?”

Anya peered up at him. “Why?”

“I’d like to see it, and I think we should talk about it.”

Anya fiddled with the zipper clasp. “Anya doesn’t want to…”

Twilight hesitated. It wouldn’t do to force her, but he also wanted her to understand that she didn’t need to keep secrets from him or Yor any longer…

Is there a middle ground…?

“How about you show me the painting to start with,” he suggested. “If you don’t want to talk about it, then we don’t have to. But I would like to see it at least, please.”

After another extended pause, she opened her backpack and withdrew a folder. Twilight set the backpack down, sitting down beside her as Bond trotted over, nosed into Anya's foot before sitting down on Twilight’s, staring up at Anya with his ears flat on his head. If Bond is worried… Bracing himself, Twilight waited as Anya dithered, opening and closing the folder a few times, before finally opening it such that he couldn’t see inside. Then doing what sounded like flicking the paper. She looked towards him from the corner of her eyes, half hiding behind her hair. Twilight looked back at her expectantly, trying to convey a general neutral receptivity in both thoughts and countenance.

His stomach clenched when she curled in on herself and withdrew the painting, passing it to him without meeting his eyes.

There wasn’t much more to it than Anya had told him in the car. The girl was in a simple dress, reminiscent of a hospital gown. The nurse was a bear. If Anya hadn’t told him the nurse was holding a needle, he wouldn’t know it to look at it, but with her description he could see the intention. He had worried about what the girl may look like, but while not necessarily happy, she didn’t look frightened or hurt. Similarly, he had been concerned about the nurse, but even as a bear, the nurse wasn’t painted to be frightening.

Maybe he had been wrong?

‘Sleep needle,’ she said, Twilight.

“This is well done, Anya. I especially like the colours you’ve used, and the way you’ve painted the girl.” After a moment where Anya perked up a bit but still looked at him uncertainly when she turned, Twilight indicated the bear, asking, “Can you tell me about the nurse here?”

Anya perked up more. “Nurse is a bear,” Anya said cautiously.

“Mhm,” Twilight said, imbuing his voice with a thread of enthusiasm. “I could tell because you did a very good job with her ears.”

“Anya did?”

“Yes. What kind of nurse is the bear-nurse?”

“Um.” Anya’s face pulled into a thoughtful frown as she studied her painting. “A gristly bear.”

“Grizzly,” Twilight suggested and Anya nodded. “Interesting choice! Did you see a taxidermied one at the museum?” Anya nodded. “I see. And how would you describe the grizzly bear nurse in her behaviour?”

Anya’s mouth opened in a thoughtful O, and she kicked her feet, looked to the side as she thought. Then slowly, “The bear-nurse is, is, was… The nurse wasn’t mean.”

‘Wasn’t mean’ isn’t ‘nice.’

“Aha, I see,” Twilight said easily. “Well, a bear is still a bear, right?” Anya nodded again. “And the girl… How is she?”

Anya shrugged. “She’s just a girl.”

“Mm, yes. A human girl,” Twilight agreed. “I like how you’ve painted her hair.” Anya's eyes dropped to the painting. “But I am wondering, Anya. Does the girl want to be there?”

“No.” Anya swallowed, said again, “No.” Then started trembling, then started shaking her head forcefully — “No, no! The girl is scared!” His heart dropped — Bond clattered to his feet with a low borf — She’s going to hurt herself — “But the girl can’t go! The girl got took and the people won’t let her go and she can’t go, and the nurse, she, she, she —”

“Anya,” Twilight said, warm and firm, “Anya, stop.” Touching her shoulder and reaching, carefully putting his other hand to her face to stop her shaking her head. Her cheek was clammy, her eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow.

Twilight released her long enough to spin her chair towards him. Leaning forwards so their faces were on a level, her balled hands so small in his. “Anya, you’re safe here with me. And Bond.” Her eyes opened, fixing on his face. “I know this must be scary, but you’re not in danger.” He cleared his thoughts of all but that one single fact. “I want you to breathe with me, breathe with Papa, okay?”

Her eyes were swimming in tears, a bit vacant, but gasping, she nodded shakily.

“Good,” Twilight said. “Why don’t we put one hand on our tummies, so we can feel the breath go in and out? Over your belly button. Like this.” Letting go of one of her hands, Twilight rested his hand on his own stomach as he said. He nodded encouragingly as Anya did the same. “Well done, Anya. Okay. Ready? Let's breathe in.” Children had shorter breathing cycles than adults; smoothing his thumb across his solar plexus, he grounded himself so the shorter cycle wouldn't inadvertently trigger his own panic. “Good girl,” he murmured as she mimicked him, “And out…” He gave an exaggerated exhale, watching closely as Anya's breath shuddered. “And in. And out… Well done, Anya.” They did that seven more times before Twilight suggested, “Do you think we can breathe a bit more quietly together?” Anya stared, then nodded her head jerkily. “Okay, let’s try. In. And out… Good. Good girl. Let’s keep doing that together.”

When Anya’s breathing was normal, her colour mostly returned to her cheeks, Twilight lowered his hand from his stomach, rubbed a circle into the back of Anya’s hand. It had loosened as they’d breathed together, her fingers splayed across his palm. “Well done, Anya. Do you feel a little better?”

“Anya… Anya could have died,” she whispered. Bond whined, pushing in between Twilight’s knees and Anya’s chair, bumping his head into Anya’s foot. “Papa saved Anya’s life.”

“I know it was very scary. You felt that way because of breathing very fast. I’ve experienced it. Yor, too. And we’re both still here. Just like you. Fast breathing is very scary when you don’t expect it, but you won’t die from it.”

“Is Papa sure?”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.” Passed his free hand over his thigh and — Is my hand shak— Cutting off the thought, absently patting Bond’s head when he whined a second time, and met Anya’s wide eyes again. “Do you… Anya, can I hug you?”

“P-papa wants…?”

“Only if you want to, yes, I do.”

Anya’s eyes filled with tears — Was I wrong to ask?! — but then Anya tumbled forwards, Twilight catching her just in time as she tried to launch herself into his lap. He lifted her safely against his chest, letting her burrow into him, ignoring when she kicked him in the ribs — or — wait —

“Oof,” he exaggerated, folding forward slightly. “When did you get so strong, Anya?”

“Papa’s dorky,” she replied, muffled and a little damp, smashing her face into his shoulder as she fidgeted to get comfortable. Geez. But then she stilled, clutched a hand by his neck, and murmured, “But Anya’s sorry for hurting Papa.”

Arms tightening reflexively, Twilight pulled her closer. “That’s okay. It didn’t hurt too much."

He had been right earlier, thinking she had grown. The first time he had picked her up she had been nearly weightless in his hold. And now…

She was still just as warm.

Bond leaned heavily against his legs, settling again on his feet. Twilight jostled Bond with his shins, hoping the dog understood it for the reassurance he couldn’t give with his hands presently.

“Mama won’t teach Anya the really violent stuff,” she informed him.

“Oh.” All things considered… “That’s probably a good thing.”

“Papa’s no fun,” Anya grumbled.

“Mm,” he agreed. Indulging in a way he shouldn’t, dropping his head, breathing in the scent of Anya’s shampoo, a scent he normally found sickly sweet, some children’s abomination meant to smell like candy and instead smelling like chemicals. And objectively it still did. It didn’t bother him at the moment. And it did keep her hair healthy and soft. “That’s probably true.”

After a moment’s silence, Anya asked, “Can Papa make omurice for dinner?”

Twilight sighed. “Yes. Do you want to help me make it?”

“Uh…” Anya shifted a bit, bonking her head into his chin. That actually was a little painful, nearly bone to bone, his teeth clashing together. “You see, there’s a new cartoon on after Spy Wars and Anya wants to see…”

“Uh-huh,” Twilight said, squashing an irrational disappointment. “You can’t miss that.”

“Anya would be out of the loop!” she declared.

“Can’t have that.”

“But… Anya wants to hug Papa longer,” she whispered.

Did she pick that up from my thoughts —

“Anya wants,” she said again, a familiar, recognisable obstinance in her voice.

Unstoppable force…

Breathing out, Twilight tousled her hair. “All right, then.”

 

---

 

Mister Chimera was clutched tightly in her hand when Twilight checked on Anya an hour and a half after she’d gone to bed. But judging by the soft snores, she was sleeping soundly. He closed the door quietly, returning to the living room.

Now he was… at loose ends. Frowning, he glanced at his watch. Yor hadn’t specified a time she would be back, but based on previous later nights for her, she usually would have returned by now. A pit opened in his stomach. Should I be worried? He didn't have any contacts at Garden — but WISE would.

And an oversight, not to secure his own. What if he wanted to reach out without alerting WISE?

Without alerting WISE?! Twilight, what are you —

A key sounded in the lock, Yor apologising as soon as she stepped through the door, “I’m so sorry I’m later than — although, did I say a time? I should have called.” He was going to say that it was all right: they didn’t owe one another those kinds of details, did they?

Of course they did. They had been giving those specifics for months.

Should I be angry?

Absurd. All he felt was relieved. More relieved than the situation warranted.

He took a step with half a thought of helping her out of her coat before he drew to a stop. The last time he had done that without thinking, her entire body had stiffened. And after yesterday —

“Welcome home,” he said instead, holding where he was. “Did the briefing overrun?”

“Oh, no. After our conversation yesterday, I wanted to see Yuri… I haven’t… I haven’t seen him in a while…” She trailed away, distracted for a beat, before she took a breath and tended to her own coat. The last intelligence he’d read, which was admittedly a couple of weeks out of date, indicated that Yuri was somehow managing to work even more than he had previously, while also spending time with colleagues in his down hours.

WISE’s evaluation was that the SSS indoctrination of Yuri Briar was proceeding apace.

Watching Yor slip out of her boots, her wistful expression yesterday rose in his mind’s eye, the cadence of her voice, What I wanted at first was to protect Yuri. To keep him… naive, in a way, of how awful some things in the world are, for as long as possible…

While Yuri was ultimately responsible for his own choices, the SSS still had a great deal to answer for.

When Yor turned back to face him, her eyes widened, and he cleared his expression of whatever had slipped through.

“I hope you had a nice visit?” he asked instead.

“… It was good to spend some time with him,” she said, smiling slightly. “Although I’m a little worried…” Her eyes refocused, sliding to Twilight as though she remember something.

What do you need to make it easier?

Space, he had answered. Time.

Tightening his hands as Yor went on, “Um, you don't need to hear about Yuri. It was good.”

Bizarre, that wash of mortification. No one had ever accommodated him before. He… wasn’t sure he enjoyed the experience.

He also wanted to hear about Yuri. In part because any update on Yuri was useful intel, especially if it was true he was being pulled deeper into the SSS fold, making him an even greater risk. But also because Yuri was important to Yor, and…

Sighing internally, Twilight resisted any other outwardly reaction. He couldn’t demand Yor continue to open herself to him while he put a stop to any conversation about himself. Not when Yor wanted…

Grinding his teeth against a curl of nausea. No.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he managed, smiling.

Yor glanced away, nodding. She looked as though she were about to speak, and anticipating she may slip away to bed, Twilight spoke quickly, “Before you go, I want to update you about Anya.”

“About Anya?” Yor asked, startled. Immediately alert, she took an urgent step towards him. “Is she all right?”

Not exactly. “In the way you're asking, yes. She’s asleep.”

Yor’s shoulders dropped in relief. “Oh, good.” Then what he’d said seemed to catch up to her. “In the way I’m asking… so… Oh no, Loid.” She caught herself, shook her head, “Twilight,” she amended, as though that were important — Isn’t it, Twilight? Warmth spread, making it impossible to ignore how it eased a measure of tension. Yor took a step towards him. “Were we — we were right, weren’t we? She isn’t as okay as she seems?”

He inclined his head. “I picked her up from school today — she asked me to, when I was dropping her off this morning,” he explained off the back of Yor’s surprised hurt; that hadn’t been the plan as they’d last discussed it. “She told me she did a painting,” he went on, going to the table and passing the painting to Yor. As Yor frowned down at it, tilting her head to try and understand, Twilight said quietly, “She told me that the little girl is getting a sleep needle from the nurse.”

“A sleep needle,” Yor repeated in a whisper, her face going pale, expression moving from horror to upset. She looked up at him. “Like at the facility.”

“I suspected the same.” Air filled his lungs on a deep inhale. He released it heavily. “She didn’t want to talk about it at first, so we went to get cake.”

“Of course you did,” Yor breathed, almost smiling.

Twilight rotated his shoulders to relieve the sudden itch there, not sure what she meant. That wasn’t important. “After cake, I asked to see her painting. And I asked a few questions. Anya got upset, talking about the little girl.” He gestured to the painting. “That the little girl had been taken, and wasn’t allowed to leave.” Yor's hand tightened on the painting, the paper crinkling. She glanced at it, setting it gently aside. His muscles growing tense, Twilight went on, “Anya started shaking her head quickly and I was worried she would hurt herself. I stopped her. But Yor…”

Yor’s hand jerked as though to reach for him. Twilight grit his teeth against the memory of Yor's arms warm around his waist, the way her hair dragged under her head on his shoulder —

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Yor whispered.

Twilight shook his head. “Yuri is important, too. And your briefing. It was also difficult encouraging Anya to talk about it. I think it may have been more challenging if we were both here.”

“Oh,” Yor said, hurt blooming across her face.

“I only mean that I think it would be best if we both tried to encourage her to tell us about what she's feeling.” How am I still saying things wrongly? “And I think we should do that separately, one-on-one with Anya.”

“Oh,” Yor said again, this time in evident relief. Her expression turned thoughtful. “You think with both of us, it’s too… too intimidating?”

“I’m not sure… But I think it’s worth trying. We’ll be honest with her that we’re telling one another what we talk about with her.”

For the count of 0.2, Twilight thought Yor was going to disagree, the way her pupils widened and a sound seemed stuck in her throat. But on the next blink, the moment passed, and Yor only said thoughtfully, “She would know in any case.” Twilight repressed a twinge of something unworthy at reference to Anya’s telepathy. “But now, is she…”

“We calmed down together and she went to bed without complaining. She fell asleep quickly. I think she’s…” He closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t know.”

Yor bit her lip, nodding. “It’s difficult. She’s so young…” Yor twisted as though to turn to the kitchen, then hesitated. “I… I have something I need to tell you as well,” she said, awkwardly. Had she changed her mind? Would he learn about the details of her visit with Yuri…? He shouldn’t feel as glad for that as he did. “But I also, I also want some tea to take with me to bed. Do you mind if we… Or I can make it, um, after?”

Would this have been awkward before? The reality of his request, his weakness, curdled in his stomach. That isn’t for Yor to worry about, he told himself. To Yor, he pitched his tones to agreeable, and said, “We can go to the kitchen.”

“O-okay, thank you.”

It was tempting to follow her all the way in, to lean against the counter where he had the other night when they flirted, to try to evoke that same feeling and bridge the — Twilight hung back, kept more than a metre between them, leaning instead against the door jamb, crossing his arms over his chest.

Right, because this distance makes such a difference, he thought sarcastically to himself, his eyes drifting along the strong line of her arm as she reached for a mug, watching the neat turn of her legs, her graceful light step, to fetch the kettle.

Snapping his eyes to her face as she turned to him after setting the kettle to boil, Yor looked at him worriedly. “I wanted to… Have you, um, have you heard from WISE?”

“No,” Twilight answered, tilting his head. What is this about? “My next meeting is tomorrow morning.”

“That’s what I thought,” Yor murmured. “Well… I just wanted to… After our conversation last night, I did ask them if there was any way we could postpone.”

“Postpone?” He mentally flipped through everything he’d recently communicated with WISE, in person or through other means. Excepting the possibility of a Forger family trip on the Ostanian formation holiday, which by its nature could not be postponed, he couldn’t think of anything else. “What is there to postpone?”

Yor took a breath, visibly let it ease her shoulders down. She held his gaze, something sympathetic there which did nothing to assuage the awkwardness between them or his present confusion. She said, almost delicately, “At my debrief today, my mentor informed me that Garden and WISE were going to be trialling teams.”

“WISE told me that earlier this week,” Twilight said slowly.

“Oh.”

He was missing something.

So ask, Twilight. He prompted: “It seems like there’s something you want to say, Yor.”

“Well it’s just… I thought you would have told me.”

Another mistake.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not entirely certain what he was apologising for, but given Yor seemed perturbed, and that things between them were… he sighed internally, not tense exactly, or strained, but, yes, awkward. It would be best to smooth what ruffles he could. He explained, “Since it didn’t directly affect me or you, I didn’t think it was urgent.”

Yor stared at him. Then she shifted from one foot to the other. Her hands came together, and she stepped side-to-side again.

He really was missing something.

She licked her lips. “WISE told you it didn’t have to do with us?”

Twilight shook his head. “I was told they would find other operatives for the trial.”

Yor shifted her weight one more. Swung her clasped hands out, bumping them back against her waist. “I think they’ve changed their minds,” she said apologetically. “We’re to test together on Monday.”

Notes:

Just want to shout out this comic by @aerequets! I had started writing the moment Twilight realises Anya's head is coming up higher to the window than it had before, and the wonderful comic came to mind — tbh I prefer aerequets’ version where they do in fact track it! Maybe in this fic, they start after this ♥

As always, many and multiple thanks to my betas countrymint & briefhottubcoffee for their invaluable feedback 💕! Even with the slew of panic attacks these last few chapters (😩) this one was probably the most challenging to write, with Anya's experience. Brie kindly discussed it a great deal, and further read and fedback on multiple iterations of that scene specifically. Whilst also urging me on several particulars which deepened the chapter overall 🫶 This one actually also infiltrated my irl life, where my pal C, who intro'd me to SxF in the first place, indulged me in discussing what the aftermath might look like ♥♥♥

Also more practically, I utilised this guide to helping a child through a panic attack and pass it on as a useful resource, though I hope no one reading this has any use for it (outside, perhaps, the fictional).

 

As always, thank you so much for reading ♥ I'd love to hear from you 🍰

Chapter 16

Summary:

(Fic formerly titled it's only me, what have you got to lose?)

 

Tracing the undisturbed lines of the comforter on Loid Forger’s bed, both pillows were plumped, without any indent evidencing use. At the safehouse, Yor's side of the bed had always been immaculately made, except for her pillow. The dip where her head had rested, once a stray hair. Testimony to her resting beside where he had.

Notes:

This chapter was a doozy for me in the edit, and it's a hell of a lot improved thanks to countrymint and briefhottubcoffee and their advance reading and thoughts! Extra thanks to Brie for getting into the weeds with me, particularly on that section which nearly did my head in! Thank you both so much as always ♥♥♥!

And belated highlighting in the chapter summary of the new fic name! sorry for anyone confused by their last notification email!

Franky was a skilled counterfeiter. The files were innocuous. Or, as innocuous as thirteen documents detailing human experimentation, two specifically on children, could look. It was only in Twilight’s imagination that they seemed visibly odious.

… When was the last time he had viewed an inanimate object so fantastically?

He still didn’t know if it was best to destroy the files or to arrange for them to be found.

The city was just barely starting to wake up outside his window. Each dry blink dragged grit under his lids from lack of sleep. Almost a companionable pulse in his temples where his headache lingered.

This won’t do. I need at least some sleep before I face Handler.

Passing a hand down his face, Twilight slid the files back into their discrete hiding spot. He hadn’t slept well the last two nights. Not since he had asked for space and for time, to which Yor had, with characteristic grace and foresight, agreed. Squinting against a particularly sharp throb of his headache, he conceded that even before that, slept well was by his own metric alone; he could practically feel the waves of Yor’s horror if she were to find out what that looked like.

Which was aggravating in and of itself, he told himself. It wasn’t as though he was unaware that he didn’t have enough time for what would be otherwise considered appropriate amounts of rest. But it had been tolerable, most of the time, before he’d known that anyone was paying attention.

A poor lie. Handler paid attention and the only thing aggravating about that had been her lack of compromise when her agents needed it. So it wasn’t the attention that bothered him. … Not exactly.

Tracing the undisturbed lines of the comforter on Loid Forger’s bed, both pillows were plumped, without any indent evidencing use. At the safehouse, Yor's side of the bed had always been immaculately made, except for her pillow. The dip where her head had rested, once a stray hair. Testimony to her resting beside where he had. His stomach tightened and heat prickled at the memory, and in concert, irritation ground his teeth. Excepting the one time Yor had overcompensated, plumping her pillow to an unnatural degree, plumping his own in a way it never had been since they’d arrived, not by him in any case, when she must have taken his pillow for her own unknown reasons —

We never actually shared a bed, he thought irritably when his heart flipped. We will never share a bed.

But that was true and it wasn’t. He had slept better those nights, with the sense of Yor having been there. That next rest period especially, knowing that for some reason she had taken his pillow — in her sleep or had she been awake? Accident or intentional? He hadn’t allowed himself to do more than be aware of her side, but that indication that Yor had some engagement with his side —

His side, her side! What are you thinking, Twilight?! It had been impossible since returning home to ignore that Yor hadn’t slept in this bed. And it irked him, that the bed at the safehouse had been more conducive to rest than this bed, the bed he had slept in for months, which had previously felt more his own than Loid Forger’s. The reasons that changed eluded —

No, he knew why it changed.

Every night after their chess game, Twilight felt the hiccup in his own steps as though to follow Yor into her room, into her bed. Better than without, their nightly chess lessons and idle talk had helped him rest; it hadn’t helped prevent his mind conjuring images of Yor, or even just the impression of Yor, in bed beside him.

Would I sleep better if we somehow did the same arrangement again?

No. Absolutely not. That was out of the question.

But perhaps were the chess lessons to continue —

I was the one who asked for space. It isn’t fair to Yor to go back on that without being able to explain myself. I can’t ask her to let me be with her while I’m uncertain about her.

Only it isn’t uncertainty, is it?

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he wanted. It was that what he wanted was impossible. It should have been comfortably impossible; it had been, before. His mission prevented it, and even if it weren’t for Strix, Yor didn’t want the same things. And he hadn’t yet determined how close he could get to her without compromising himself far past sense.

Aren’t we friends, Loid? had been a simple question. Loid Forger was and was not friends with anyone: insofar as those around him thought he existed, Loid Forger had friends. Insofar as Loid Forger did not actually exist, no friendship existed either.

But he took the question for what Yor actually meant in the context of learning Twilight wasn’t who he had said he was, wasn’t who Yor thought he was, and in the context of Twilight learning Yor wasn’t who she said she was or who he thought she was (if to a lesser degree). Her real question had been whether he, Twilight, was friends with her, Yor, in all that entailed.

As the light of his window began to challenge the pale gold of his lamp with a dull blue-grey, alone and in the genuine privacy of his mind, Twilight would concede: he wanted to be friends. And… he wanted things that were outside the typical bounds of friendship. Her hands on him. His hands on her. The thrill of a shared frisson actively pursued. He hadn’t ever experienced that before, but what he felt with Yor made crystal clear why his targets had responded to him as they had when he had successfully mimicked one. He wanted a true partnership. And all that entailed.

Things he was certain Yor wasn’t aware she was signalling was possible.

Something might happen.

Could he withstand a friendship?

Absent all other factors and entanglements of the Forgers, the answer was clear: of course he could.

If Yor weren’t his fake wife, it would be easier, he reasoned. There would be no need to ever play at a further intimacy, no risk they would ever need to portray or demonstrate a marital intimacy. Easy, then, to draw lines around what bounds of friendship they set.

Three times, their fake marriage had been challenged. The bizarre disaster that was Yuri’s demand they kiss. His own disastrous misread of Yor’s reaction to meeting Nightfall. Finally, when Yor had indicated she wanted their arrangement to continue indefinitely and had asked for his own view on the topic. That hadn’t reached disaster levels in the same way the first two had, but it had been nebulous for a period.

But now…

Pressing his fingers into his forehead, massaging vigorously, he tried not to see her face in his mind’s eye, bright eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted, voice just that slight bit husky, flirting about poisons…

Get a grip. Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip.

He and Yor would never share a bed again, at the same time or otherwise. It was probably unwise to continue their nightly rendezvouses, beneficial for his sleep or not. And so friendship?

He swallowed.

Why can’t I let that go?

The answering voice was swift, deeply rooted, and the hope in it rubbed raw against the dull ache in his chest: Because I want friends.

Sighing, his temples throbbed under his finger tips. It wasn’t as though that desire was unknown to him. The persistent gnawing in his stomach was the memory of hunger both physical and relational. He was as good a spy as he was because he knew his internal emotional landscape and he maintained it as and when he could. And it had taken him longer to realise than it ought to have, but this mission, the fake family he had worked so hard to create, to ensure succeeded for the mission — the mission had allowed him cover for the true base of his early challenges. Easy to claim ignorance of feeling around Yor: their early affinity, his near-immediate trust, a trust he hadn’t wanted to scrutinise even in the face of blatant cause to question due to her association with a member of the SSS in Yuri. Worse, more obvious, Twilight's easy capitulation to Anya on the same day he had met her. At least Bond was a regular dog, despite coming from what was likely a sister program to the one Anya had survived. But even then, he had accepted Bond and all his idiosyncrasies easily.

Easy. Easy. Easy. See?

Spies always look gift horses in the mouth. Idiotic not to, in his field. A gift was sometimes a gift, and a gift was sometimes the death sentence for innumerable people, spy included. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t questioned some of that easiness, it was rather that the questions didn’t stick. At least not past that first attempt with Yor.

Her eyes in that moment — if you intend to harm my husband in some way, I don’t care who you work for. I will show you no mercy — still confounded him. How many times had he taken himself in hand, thinking of her in that moment? Of what it might be like, to be in service to that energy? Or to channel it, together, into something mutually pleasurable? Or any of those moments where her voice went quieter, thoughtful and kind? The way the energy around her shifted to something lulling and gentle. What would sex be like, with Yor in that mood? How would Yor respond to his touch? How would Yor touch him? He had imagined. Those, and untold others. Sex while she laughed behind her hand, her eyes sparkling and warm; sex to expel her anxiety; sex when she was sweat-sheened and invigorated from exercise with her hair tied in that high ponytail. Welcoming her home by rucking her office skirt, teasing a tear into her tights, pressing his mouth to the apex of her thighs. Kisses to the sensitive nape of her neck as he guided her hands to brace against the steam-slick wall of the shower, taking firm hold of the rounds of her hips. Early in the morning, when her hair was a tangled mess around her face because she apparently didn’t tie it up overnight — he had wondered, once or twice, whether he would end up tangled in her hair, sleeping beside her — and, sleep-soft, she would be awake enough only to know that she wanted him.

There was no shame inherent in sex, imagined or otherwise, and there were no casualties from masturbation in private. The only risk was to himself if he wasn’t careful with his mindset, if he attached too much emotion to the act. And to that end, it hadn’t mattered: masturbating occasionally while imagining sex with Yor hadn’t been anything before, because Yor was out of his reach and he’d known that. She hadn’t known him, would never have known him. They would never have sex because Yor didn’t want to, and even if she did want to have sex with Loid Forger, Twilight had realised he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it. Sex with Yor had become something for Twilight himself or they weren’t having it; because Yor would never know Twilight, that had been that. The whole situation kept the possibility of sex firmly in the realm of fantasy, and masturbation was a practical option allowing him to slake the charge of his imagination and take the edge off his hitherto unprecedented libido.

At least. That had been the situation.

You’ve helped Twilight in his work and also to keep him safe, she had said to Franky. And I’m very grateful to you for that.

Now Yor said things like that — and it wasn’t an inadvertent hypothetical declaration protecting a man who didn’t exist. It was about he, himself. He, Twilight. Yor knew him, named him. She sat with him and together they discussed how to handle the problems that arose from some of the worst experiences of his life, how to care for Anya in that aftermath, fear and responsibility shared. They discussed the state of their relationship: his, Twilight, and Yor’s. She accidentally flirted with him. They’d started playing chess. He had felt and still felt her hands on his back, her head on his shoulder, the impression of her body against his even with the distance between them in that physically awkward hug on the bathroom floor — it blended with that first incident on the park bench, his neck, the back of his head, still remembered her firm thighs even if he had tried to eradicate that physical memory immediately. The 3.5 seconds of holding her hand for the sake of her city hall colleagues before she had started to crush his fingers. Her exhortation to Relax and let go. And she had likely forgotten it, but her suggestion they grow chamomile, the way she her voice had warmed around each syllable as she suggested a window box for him, so the scent could come in his windows…

She asked him what he needed, and didn’t balk or flinch or judge or make her own demands, stipulations or caveats. She only said, Okay, and How best?

And now they were to work with one another in their professional capacities, where Yor had the type of proficiency, dexterity, masterful skill that he typically admired, ideally cooly observing from a decent remove. But none of his experience of Yor was cool or removed.

He hadn’t tried, hadn’t yet had a specific impetus, but by the coursing under his skin he suspected masturbation would no longer work. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted her to touch him again, more, and to not stop. He wanted to touch her. To taste. To know how she would move, how her body would feel, with him inside her. To know; no longer to have only speculation. To talk with her when it was just they two, skin to skin, under bed covers. He wanted to hear her voice heavy with sleep last at night and see her bright or bleary when he first turned his head in the morning. To know every thought and every kindness that moved through her head, and learn the patterns of her moods beneath her skin. He wanted her to love him.

He wanted her to love him.

 

He wanted her to love him.

 

And he wanted to love her.

Without restraint or reserve or repudiation.

The darkness of his hands cupped over his eyes wasn’t enough, his palms unexpectedly cool on the hot skin of his face. Enduring the sharp pain in his solar plexus, the sick drop of his stomach, he sunk his hands into his hair and stared into the middle distance. His heart thumped, heavy, and didn’t let him move on.

He had sought perfection in his profession for how long, pursuing the missions of WISE and his own private goals, one step ahead of an endless and growing list of enemies with their desires for his detainment or his death, and it shouldn’t be a surprise, should it, that his precipitating failure was coming at the hands of a contract killer?

Hands, no. Not hands. Heart. It was Yor’s heart that was his undoing.

There are worse things, he thought. There are worse ways.

There were. Rationally. Philosophically. Pragmatically. Factually. There were worse ways.

Except that he wasn’t done. He would never be done. He had work to do. And this…

This was agonising. This was complicated.

He was making it complicated.

That was unacceptable. This part of his mission, the Forgers, was not to be complicated. He may one day need to complicate things for Donovan Desmond in the course of the mission. The Forgers, though, were meant to be straightforward. They were meant to be a…

A normal family.

A normal family, huh. The only normal member of the Forgers was Bond, and he was a dog.

Laughing, his hand was just a breath too slow to muffle the sound entirely, disturbing the dawn hush.

Yor had been worried about normality at the start, hadn’t she? It had been that same day, after he had posed as an SSS agent, testing her. Not the first nor the last time he had conflicting feelings about the Forgers, but it had been the last time he distrusted Yor… He should have; had he been a real SSS agent, her actions could have brought down all kinds of hell on their heads, even considering Yuri’s potential intervention, had he been successful in one. Yuri’s relative position in the SSS remained something of a mystery: he was low ranked, and also seemed to have an outsized presence with his superiors. WISE speculated he was perhaps one of the SSS Director’s favourites. And if that were true…

That wasn’t the issue at hand. Yor’s response to an SSS agent ought to have worried him. Instead he had felt guilty. And relieved. That was incorrect. It was worse than that. It had been more than relief. He had felt safe.

Yor, on the other hand, had been understandably shaken, worried. And what had he told her when she expressed her fears?

Not to worry about it. Too much focus on normality caused more distress than it alleviated. That she should be herself, and that was all. What had gone unspoken was that he held Yor in esteem. She was undoubtedly a bit strange by the normative, frequently banal and diminishing standards of Ostanian society. At her core, she was beyond reproach.

And that was because of who she was.

Why that of all things reminded him of Anya.

Anya has always been Papa's daughter —

Anya always likes it best when I can be with the both of you —

Anya wants world peace —

He had, for too long, seen Anya’s flaws as something to be overcome, rather than embraced. But Anya being herself — being something of a strange child in and of herself and, it was now clear, also because of the insights her telepathy gave her — how many parents had since commented on the positive influence she had on their children?

Why am I eliding it?

Name it, Twilight: her positive influence on me.

That hurt. That hurt a great deal.

Why?

Because Anya was a child?

Because I tried to change her?

Did I do that?

Yes, and no.

Yor was right, as she so often was about these things. He and Anya were similar; their dynamic was frequently that of an unstoppable force and an immovable object. How had I not seen it?

Because I’ve been too close since the beginning. Handler had perhaps attributed his compromise as being a relatively recent state, but it wasn’t. Not really.

I want to go home with you Papa!

Are you sure about that?

If you leave me again, I’ll cry.

He grimaced against a pressure storming in his temples. That was the other difficulty. That he had been setting aside to contend with — later. Fingertips to the sensitive cavity around his eyes, he pressed until his eyes flashed nonexistent visual input to his brain.

Later, Twilight. It still isn’t the time for that.

Releasing his fingers, resting his chin on his fist leaning an elbow on the chair arm, eyes still adjusting, they fell on the document hiding place.

He needed to gather himself to face Handler. To explain why or redirect that Yor had tried to delay the start of their trial. And to decide what to do with those files.

His mind was too cluttered. He needed sleep.

From another one of his hidden compartments he withdrew the little pot of lotion. Gentle lavender blossomed into the air and Twilight massaged a small amount into his temples, smoothing the rest over the insides of his wrists. Then secreted the pot back into its hidden spot.

Turning the light off didn’t drop him into darkness but rather into a warming blue of morning. Coming to a stop on the balls of his feet, he considered. Somewhere he had a sleep mask he didn’t like to use but in the circumstances…

 

---

 

“Before you argue with me, I’m aware Yor Briar advocated for postponing the first trial,” Handler said by way of greeting.

Twilight had been sitting for two minutes and thirty-six seconds before she had finally set her document down and looked him in the eyes. Why the power play…

“She cited concerns for Anya, as I’m sure you know. No need to repeat them.” While he had decided against trying to defer their trial run, Yor’s excuse hadn’t been a bad one all told. Better than her previous excuses, now that he wasn’t accepting them credulously. (Even allowing for his oversights, how he had ever accepted credulously her explanation for knowing how to stop a cow mid-rampage using pressure points…?! Goddamnit…) But he wasn’t sure what to make of the fact Yor was able to successfully divert for his sake but not her own. Handler continued, “Yor Briar seemed to have forgotten that Anya Forger is under surveillance by both WISE and Garden. We are well aware that she’s doing well.”

Twilight bore the sharp stab in his solar plexus with no outward indication, hearing again Anya’s desperate breaths, her hand clutched in the neck of his shirt, the anodyne pastels of her painting —

“So that excuse doesn’t hold water, I’m afraid,” Handler said, slumping forward to rest her chin on her hand, elbow braced on her desk. “What is the real problem?”

Twilight lifted one shoulder in practised evasion. “Yor was concerned training may cause additional strain.” Essentially true. The next part on the other hand… “I can understand her concerns, even if I do not share them.”

“You don’t, do you,” Handler said evenly. Her casual bonelessness was as good a cover as any. But he had played this with her innumerable times in training and knew how to proceed.

“Since my last check-in, we’ve had several conversations. She isn’t wholly at ease, but she has recommitted herself to the Forgers, and Anya especially.” He held Handler’s eyes, buried his own apprehensions deep, deep, deep where even she would not find them. “While there is likely to be a renewal of tensions when the details of Operation Strix are revealed to her, I don’t believe there is any cause for concern presently.”

Handler used the full force of her focus to study him for another beat, then sighed, looking off to the side. “Garden remains a mystery. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say it's some consolation that a woman like Yor Briar is one of their members.”

“Agreed.” That he would concede without qualm.

She sighed again and drew up only to lean into the back of her chair, crossing her arms. “Obviously our plans have changed from what I told you earlier in the week,” Handler said, and one of the knots in his stomach released. “Our assessment of the situation is that Garden want to see their best put up against ours. Yor Briar may not have been aware of you or your reputation, but Garden certainly was. This request came in after you informed Yor Briar of your code name, almost immediately as we did the same for Garden. On our end, they sweetened their request by saying it could be an opportunity for the head of Garden to meet the head of WISE’s operation in Ostania, should they choose to attend.” Handler spread her hands. “I suspect they’ll send a second as a stand-in, but I want to see that second in action. It will give us invaluable intelligence, no matter what happens. I, of course, will go in disguise.”

So it wasn’t entirely about himself and Yor. That was a mitigated relief.

“I see.” Twilight paused, holding Handler's gaze. “So I’m a distraction.”

Her lips twitched. “You could say that.”

“Understood.” Twilight waited a beat, then lifted his hat. “Well, if that’s all.”

“That is not all,” Handler snapped, her hand slapping the table. “You’re putting on a fine show, Agent Twilight, and I’m willing to go along with it.” Was that a gambit or real insight? Gambit or real?

Banking for now on it being a gambit, Twilight raised an eyebrow. “Tch.” Handler waved off his eyebrow with her hand. “I’ve spoken with HQ about that family holiday. They’re in favour. The big man even laughed,” Handler rolled her eyes. “Said you probably wouldn’t know how to relax, but that we could get you a house with a room to yourself.” The brief uplift in his mood curdled. Don’t be ridiculous, Twilight. How would Yor ever calm down if you were sharing her room at the same time, never mind a bed? “A retreat from the other Forgers, if you need it, since the situation is mostly understood by all of you. You’ll depart Friday afternoon, two weeks from now.”

“Understood.”

Handler nodded. Then, and Twilight allowed his honest response, raising his eyebrows as Handler’s mouth worked as though she had something more to say? Was fighting herself saying something? Skimming quickly through his memories, he couldn’t actually remember Handler ever hesitating. Not like this. What on earth?

Her eyebrows pulled down, differently expressive than she typically was when not undercover, almost sour. Then she blurted, “I wanted to ask about Anya.”

Twilight blinked. Huh? “… I see.”

Handler sighed in open exasperation. That was a return to more familiar terrain. “As I said, we know she’s doing well generally. But how much does she actually know?”

Thank fuck for the two hours of sleep he had finally managed. If he’d had none, he wasn’t confident he’d have been able to stopper the pained laugh that punched into his rib cage.

Everything. She knows everything.

How much Anya understood, though, was a separate question.

Twilight took a breath, let the pause he needed to gather his wits to play as the hesitation of a concerned guardian, and said slowly, “She believes I’m a spy, mainly due to comparisons she drew to her favourite cartoon, Spy Wars.” Handler chuckled at that, and Twilight returned to her a dry look.

“You should have tried to divert her from that in the beginning,” Handler said. Enjoying herself more than she should, by his reckoning.

Still, he acknowledged the point with a nod. “And she believes Yor is like a spy. She doesn’t know exactly what, of course —”

“Of course. How would you explain contract killing to a six year old?”

Well, that was the question wasn’t it, Twilight thought wryly. He and Yor hadn’t even really begun to examine that side of things.

The sudden weight of everything they had yet to even approach made his limbs heavy.

Never mind that now.

“We were lucky with that,” he agreed. “We aren’t disabusing her of that belief. Though we aren’t encouraging it either.”

“Mm,” Handler nodded. Then tilted her head, her hat throwing shadow over her eyes. “It’s strange, isn’t it,” she said in leading, thoughtful tones. “That her files never turned up.”

“Still nothing?” Twilight asked.

“No.”

He grit his teeth. “What can that mean? Is she in danger?”

“It’s of course difficult to know,” Handler said, and there was something that worried him under her voice. “Were they missed? Destroyed? Stolen?”

Channelling his very real concern about everything else into a mitigated version for Handler’s benefit: “You think they may have been stolen?”

Her eyes glinted. “It is a possibility. But for what purpose? You yourself reported there was no evidence of their experiments working.” Handler let that hang between them. “Unless your assessment has changed?”

If only there weren’t a fickle state apparatus behind WISE, Twilight may have accepted her offer to come clean.

Sinking into his role, he was a guardian with no secrets to tell. “No. Anya Forger continues to act as she has always done.”

The silence extended between them, but Twilight was content in silence, especially with Handler.

“I see,” Handler finally said. “Then we should all be grateful for that.”

“Agreed.”

“We'll continue the search for her files, if for no other reason than it’s best we know what they know about you.” Loid Forger had been a footnote on the second-to-last page, a note that she had been adopted by an upstanding citizen of the community. Only notable that her abduction may cause a stir in the local media unless steps were taken to bury the story. It was one of the few things Franky hadn’t needed to alter. “In the least they knew who adopted her.”

“Loid Forger’s cover should stand up to their scrutiny. Unless you believe there’s reason they may suspect something?”

“No. The operation appears to have some ties to political operators. Quite how far and wide those ties go is something our analysts are still working on. So far, there are no links to intelligence operations. If Loid Forger was compromised, we would be having a difference conversation.”

Twilight nodded.

Handler eased back. “Thank you for your report on Yor Briar, by the way,” she said, the lingering suspicion bleeding from between them as she turned to another file. He had handed it over to Nightfall before leaving the hospital yesterday. “We can compare how much Yor Briar seems to know of the operation against what we can glean from whoever Garden sends to play as its leader.”

Twilight nodded. “It should be illuminating,” he agreed.

“And tomorrow, you said, that nursery visit you’d had planned from before Anya Forger’s abduction," Handler said, then glanced at him with a wry smile. “Do try to enjoy yourself. The plant nursery in Berlint is quite nice.”

“Mm,” Twilight responded noncommittally. Handler rolled her eyes, and Twilight, recognising the dismissal, got to his feet for the second time. “Monday then.”

Handler flicked her hand in good-bye, her attention off of him. Nonetheless, Twilight kept up appearances until he walked through the door at home and found the entryway empty.

 

---

 

The cafe beside the nursery was as pleasant as Yor had predicted, and it was clear from the way Anya bounced in her seat, gripped its edges and asked endless questions (that Twilight kept pointing out would be answered as soon as they went to the nursery) that she was thrilled they were finally there.

As for the nursery itself, Handler had been right. The nursery was quite nice. He may privately go so far as to call it charming.

Situated in a former train station, built from before the first Ostania-Westalis war, when there had been more frequent and casual travel between the two countries. The building was also from a time of indulgence in architecture, a surplus in state funding and declaration of Ostanian national prosperity — and petty competition with its neighbours, most especially Westalis which had been not-quite-struggling economically during the same period. The ceiling rose high above them in a tall arch of windows, artful struts neatly bifurcated each pane. The windows themselves weren’t as upkept as perhaps its designers may have hoped, but that was almost more idyllic in the circumstances, the light gently filtered and fairly uniform shining onto the growing plants below.

It was a sensible refit of the space, Twilight privately approved, allowing the nursery to function as a grow-house for plants nearly the full year long.

To that end, the air was lush with the scents of green growth and rich soil, the occasional floral flourish. It put him in mind of the Berlint Botanical Garden, when Yor had taken him earlier in the spring.

His only complaint for the nursery was the noise: plants and soil were not known for their noise dampening properties and Sunday was clearly the day for families. Chatter and laughter and the sound of small pounding feet as children ran between the rows didn’t quite reach cacophonic levels but were still collectively louder than Twilight especially appreciated. He still hadn’t fully shaken the headache he’d woken with on Friday.

Sighing, he glanced down. In one hand, he balanced two small pots. A strawberry plant, stout and promising, easy to keep alive though fruiting may be a separate question, and a lemon verbena, about which he had had qualms, namely about its likelihood of surviving the winter, but Anya had had none. Adjusting his hold on the four seed packets in his other hand to free a finger, the little spears verdant and already primed with scent, catching gently at his finger tip, sweet-lemon releasing into the air. The lemon verbena was pleasant.

The seeds he approved of more generally. The peppermint, of course. Easy to germinate; less easy to control. Sage, marginally more difficult to germinate, but requiring less pruning than the mint. Basil, easiest by far for germination and upkeep, assuming the pot was large enough and there were no pests or dramatic turns in the weather, the basil would largely tend to itself. He had already run through a list of recipes that would be enriched with the addition of fresh herbs come harvest… And with the temptation of a fresh mint sauce, it may even be worth the added expense to get a hold of good quality lamb chops. Perhaps just for Yor and himself to start… Anya could sample one of theirs and if she liked it, he could make it again. Despite typically turning her nose up at tea, she had been excited at the prospect of tea made from fresh ingredients, asking whether her occasional hot chocolate could be accented with peppermint, or perhaps even the chamomile.

The chamomile had been the first packet they took. He hadn't intended to mention the chamomile. Given all that had happened in the two weeks since the conversation that inspired this trip, it felt more important to be there for Anya, and to maintain the Forger family cover. He wouldn’t have blamed Yor for forgetting: she could only grasp in the abstract how much her suggestion had meant to him, never mind why.

And all weekend, but today especially, Yor had been… The best way he could describe it was that she was keeping her distance. It wasn’t overt; anyone looking at them — civilian or otherwise — was unlikely to think anything was amiss. And they’d be correct; nothing was amiss. Not in any way that counted externally. But the distance was there, between himself and Yor, and it nettled at the edge of his awareness, as though something which (someone who) should be readily within his reach was instead just outside of it.

But Yor had never really been within his reach, and that made the sensation all the more uncomfortable.

An uncomfort which had faded when, flicking through seed packets, Yor had whispered a pleased, Oh! and took a half-step closer to him.

“Look, Loid!” she had said, hushed and eager, when he had turned to her. Resisting a tug, somewhere near his navel, to take a step closer to her still. “Chamomile! And it says that we can start sowing it next month. That’s lucky, isn’t it?”

It had been.

Had it?

He glanced down presently, twitching the chamomile packet out of line from the others. The chamomile had ended up being the first they’d selected. Yor had passed it to him, and incongruously, the packet weighed next to nothing, nearly insubstantial.

He hadn’t brushed Yor’s fingers, taking it from her. He hadn’t voice the apology that rose to his throat for asking for space, nor renounced the request.

She had remembered the chamomile.

She was so singularly lovely. He hadn’t resisted smiling slightly back — had barely stopped himself reacting when she drew a breath which somehow brought her a little closer. He liked the lipstick she had chosen today, a muted red that matched the ribbons on her dress and brought out sparkling highlights in her eyes. The precisely applied line to accentuate the plump of her bottom lip, tracing the delicate shape of her top lip, her tongue was so pink in contrast, wetting her lips, the flash of the white of her teeth set against that red lipstick — and with a jolt of sudden awareness, Twilight had flicked his eyes away from her mouth only to find her looking at his —

And how could that have been? In other circumstances, he would know what that meant and, given the particulars of those circumstances, name it success. But with Yor, with their situation, their current distance, and especially knowing what he did of Yor’s feelings about him, it couldn’t be… Even examining now, as memory, it didn’t make sense. Unhelpfully, the shifting coursing beneath his skin made itself known, so too the packets and pots, resisting as his hands tightened.

It had been Yor who broke the rising… tension? Charge? Misunderstanding? Between them. Flustering, apologising for he-didn’t-know-what; releasing the seed packet so suddenly he’d nearly dropped it, and taking that step back, away, asserting the distance between them again. She had turned immediately back to flipping through the other packets, faster though, than he thought she could actually read them.

An imperious, “Papa!” pulled him from his thoughts. “Papa! Anya and Mama are over here now!"

Anya was bouncing on her toes in front of a small pot of edelweiss. “Anya likes this one,” she declared when Twilight joined them, pointing. “Will it work?”

Will it work, will it work, had been Anya’s refrain since he and Yor had tried to explain to her the limits of balcony gardens. A handful of plants had already disappointed her.

But this one —

“Yes, I think so,” Yor answered happily, reading the tag. “We’ll need to get some special soil ingredients. And it also says it needs careful tending,” she added, looking at Anya seriously. “We’ll need to be careful with its stalks, and make sure it’s protected from heavy rain or snow or hail. With the other plants we’re choosing, do you want this responsibility too?”

Careful tending, huh. Twilight glanced away from Yor to look at Anya’s face.

She had put her fist to her chin, just like Yor did, her expression scrunched in thought. It was very cute. A band tightened around his chest.

“Papa,” Anya said, her eyes darting to his when he cleared his throat. “Please can you remind me what plants we’re getting?”

“What do you think?” he asked, after listing them for her. “That's six plants already that we’ll be looking after. Do you want a seventh one that’s finicky?”

“Finicky?” Yor repeated thoughtfully. “No, not finicky… It just takes a little more attention.”

Twilight inclined his head to Yor, and amended, “Do you want a plant that needs a little more attention?”

“Anya wants…” She glanced at the little pot with its seedling. The particular pot Anya had fixated on, the edelweiss was well established. He suspected if they were to investigate its roots, they’d find it would need repotting fairly quickly. But that also meant it was likely to establish well, and they may benefit from a quick growth spurt. Which, he conceded wryly, may help if the seeds didn’t germinate as quickly as they hoped — or perhaps didn’t germinate at all. It looked healthy otherwise, a bright green, leaves neat in their long teardrops, they should plump well as they grew. It was a pretty little plant.

“Anya wants to know will it work?” Anya asked again, staring up at him.

This time the question sounded in his mind like the final tumbler of a lock clicking into place.

Oh… Is that it?

All of this, the complexity he thrived with, was never meant to be his own. It was only ever meant to belong to the mission, whatever mission, any mission. Never his own life. His own life was, contrarily, simple. Go where WISE sent him. Deliver on mission objectives: or even fail on mission objectives but survive, learn, regroup, try again or move on.

Operation Strix. The Forgers. Anya. Yor. Even Bond.

For what they had become… No, that isn’t it, Twilight, he thought, a knot tightening in his stomach. The correct formulation was active. For what they were becoming: What was failure and what was success? His original mission blurred with something he’d never had before: never allowed before: never sought before. They were part of Operation Strix and Operation Strix’s success was as much for their well-being as it was for anyone else who would live, free from the threat of war.

But that was his mission. He had WISE’s support, insofar as their limited resources could stretch. But assuming Donovan Desmond was as they suspected, it was ultimately down to him whether Operation Strix succeeded or failed.

And what Anya was asking, what Yor had asked for, what he…

What they asked was… It was for something… else? Something different? No. Not different exactly. They asked for something alongside.

Will it work?

He didn’t know.

“We can do it all together,” Yor said, forced enthusiasm into what Twilight now recognised was a too-long silence. She threw him an uncertain look before crouching in front of Anya. “If you like it, Anya, it will work! And taking care of it…” Yor didn’t quite glance at him again, but he felt her attention nonetheless. “That’s something we share.”

Twilight closed his eyes. When she said it, it was so simple.

But that wasn’t it.

Still, whether she realised or more likely not, he thought dryly, Yor had given him a directive. He wouldn’t renege. And so he opened his eyes. “Yor’s right. If you like it, we all can help take care of it.” He sighed internally and pulled on all the acting he had been neglecting for this family outing. To Anya, he said, “Did you know edelweiss is also known as the stellas of the Arps?” Off the back of Anya’s intrigued expression, turning to Yor, he added, “And it can also be made into tea.”

Maybe he hadn’t acted as well as he thought, given Yor’s uncertainty didn’t lift. Or perhaps… Perhaps she could now recognise when he was acting…?

No.

He dismissed the thought out of hand. Only Handler had ever accurately known when he was acting, and even she was only right a portion of the time.

Focus, Twilight.

Yor had rallied for Anya, clearing her expression into something cheerful and looking down at their daughter. “Okay! So there we go. Seven plants! Do you think that’s enough?”

“Oui!”

Yor pumped her fist. “Good! So we just need to gather the supplies…”

“I think the loam we’ll need for the edelweiss is in that corner,” Twilight suggested, pointing. Without another word, Anya set off in a determined stride.

Will it work? Do you think that’s enough?

Mm.

Starting after Anya, Twilight aware of that deliberate distance between them again as Yor moved into place beside him, just a little too far away.

Notes:

Last lil shoutout to countrymint, for that note about how edelweiss is sometimes called the stellas of the alps 🌟⛰️

I feel like I'm forgetting something! If something stands out, oops! Let me know! Otherwise if I remember whatever it is, I'll add it in the notes for the next chapter...!

 

Thank you so much for reading 💚 and I'd love to hear from you 🌱

Chapter 17

Summary:

It had been some time since last he had been evaluated for field work. Which shouldn't matter. He would do what he always did. Perform. There were no stakes here for him to worry about.

So why am I on edge?

Notes:

Wheeew, my many thanks to countrymint for advance reading this with enthusiasm and brainstorming a particular character note. And extra special thanks to briefhottubcoffee who spent time with this chapter and gave detailed thoughts and cheer despite being in the midst of a very busy period irl! You're the best 🥰 Thank you both, ladies 💖!

Waiting for Handler and the Garden representative, Twilight glanced skyward. Yor stood at that distance they had established at the garden nursery: that distance that wasn’t quite normal but wasn’t quite awkward. He didn’t think Handler would notice, she hadn’t seen them together in some months. A likely second from Garden wouldn’t notice either.

Twilight still noticed it.

The cloud cover would help for whatever this trial run entailed. Yor had told him something of what to expect, that she was familiar with the location, “It’s been a few years since I trained there,” her eyes directed outside the car, her hands tight in her lap as he drove, “And my mentor does change things periodically. But…”

“But we won't be going in completely dark,” Twilight finished.

After a brief pause, Yor had nodded. “Mm.”

As she’d described, the surrounding hedges stood nearly four metres tall. From this vantage point, he could just make out the roof of a raised platform towards the right, presumably from where Handler and the Garden representative would observe. If they could view what was happening from that height, then likely the hedges were for privacy screening from the outside, rather than indicative of some sort of maze inside, which aligned with and confirmed Yor’s descriptions. Stepping closer to the hedge, Twilight turned, canted his body to the casual, listening closely. Hedges made poor sound insulation, even thick growth like these, but even still he didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

Smoothing to his full height again, Twilight met Yor’s eyes as she watched him curiously. She looked for a moment as though she was going to ask him a question before she looked away instead.

Without word himself, Twilight made his way to stand beside her again to wait. It had been some time since last he had been evaluated for field work. Which shouldn’t matter. He would do what he always did. Perform. There were no stakes here for him to worry about.

So why am I on edge?

He would have done similar reconnaissance even if he weren’t; while he could undoubtedly handle whatever test they had for them, it was still best to use what time was available to evaluate the situation and gain what intel he could. But in this instance, there was an undercurrent. He’d had to be conscious about appearing casual as he listened at the hedge edge. He had to be mindful to ensure he appeared to be casting his eyes skyward not for any specific purpose, and so on.

What’s bothering me?

The door he had earlier noticed hidden within the shrubbery to their left opened, and Handler stepped out first. Purple-tinted black wig. Sunglasses. An extra three beauty marks painted selectively to redirect attention from other features, which she had masked in any case with makeup that made her cheeks seem hollower, her lips fuller, her nose more prominent.

Otherwise, she had opted to dress herself in the most hackneyed spy costume he had ever seen. He was struggling not to react. It was borderline offensive.

Also, he had a similar hat.

Handler knew it too, what was she playing at? That twitch in her cheek as though she were laughing at him?!

As a tall man stepped out from behind Handler, Twilight spared one final glower in Handler’s direction — furtively, only Handler would recognise it — before he turned his attention to Garden’s representative. The representative’s costume on the other hand: was it a costume…? A cream tunic of superlative fabric and tailoring, cinched at the waist by a belt that, if Twilight wasn’t mistaken, was a near perfect replica of the type of intricately woven belts aristocrats would wear two centuries previous when Ostania and Westalis were united as a single country. What had Yor said? Garden began during the old empire. Was it possible that wasn’t only myth-making, or did Garden habitually collect meticulously made historical replicas and dress their seconds in them in service to the myth? Clandestine organisations had done stranger, he supposed.

Twilight glanced surreptitiously at Yor whose smile seemed genuine, her bow of greeting sincere.

Could this be her mentor?

“Good morning, Agent Twilight,” Handler greeted, coding to him that things were so far as anticipated, before she turned to Yor. “And you must be Thorn Princess,” Handler’s voice turned notably warm, to Twilight’s surprise. “I look forward to witnessing your skill in person.”

“Oh! Um, thank you?” Yor glanced first at Twilight and then at the Shopkeeper before returning her attention to Handler. “I’ll do my best!”

Handler smiled. “You may refer to me as Handler. WISE aren’t quite as creative with our code names as Garden appears to be.”

Yor bowed. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Handler.”

“And you are the illustrious Agent Twilight,” the man standing beside Handler said.

Twilight turned to him and bowed in the Ostanian custom of greeting. The man laughed. “What perfect manners. Though that’s to be expected from you, I suppose.” His tones were also warm, his amusement seemed unforced and not malicious. More as though he were inviting Twilight to join him in the joke. Interesting. “I go by Shopkeeper. It is indeed an honour to meet you, Agent Twilight. I’ll extend the same sentiment as my WISE colleague did to Thorn Princess. It will be a pleasure to see you work.”

Yor had once or twice begun to refer to her mentor, the sh—, so this man was likely the same who saved her in her youth.

… A risk, but one he deemed worthwhile. Twilight held the man’s eyes, bowing once more, marginally deeper, even as he kept his voice inflectionless, “It is an honour to meet you, Shopkeeper.”

That likely hadn’t gone unnoticed by Handler, but it seemed the Shopkeeper took some of his meaning, a very slight uptick in his brow though his expression otherwise smoothed into a pleasant smile as he turned his attention back to Handler.

“We’ve had our pleasantries,” Shopkeeper said to her, a thread of amusement still warming his tones. “Shall we begin our trial?”

“Yes, let’s.” Handler drew herself to her full height, shifting immediately into the exacting manner she adopted for briefings. Twilight didn’t react, but beside him Yor jolted to attention. “Future trials will operate differently,” Handler began, “However today’s is designed to play to your strengths. Agent Twilight, your mission is to retrieve the dossier. It is located in a safe in the room with the replica of Winged Victory of Samothrace. Thorn Princess,” Yor gulped beside him. Not acknowledging Yor’s reaction, Handler continued crisply, “Your assignment is to clear a path for Agent Twilight as cleanly as you're able. Weapons and tools will be inside. Do either of you have any questions?”

Twilight shook his head, feeling the Shopkeeper’s attention on him. Yor said, “No.”

“I thought you wouldn’t,” Handler said, amusement infusing her tones once again. Under pretence of adjusting his gloves, Twilight suppressed a wash of irritation.

This is the mission today. Stop fussing.

The Shopkeeper said, “With all parties in understanding, Handler and I shall take our spot in the viewing tower.” He gestured in the direction of the building Twilight had observed. “The door will open again for you when we’re in position.”

“See you on the other side,” Handler said.

The Shopkeeper echoed, “We look forward to the debrief.”

They disappeared back through the door. Twilight let out a breath, drawing another to fill his chest in a bid to relieve some of the tension there. Yor stepped lightly towards the door, looking pensive.

Her eyes slid to his. “Is Handler your, well, your handler?”

Twilight nodded. “And my trainer, when I first joined WISE.”

“She’s very intimidating,” Yor said, hushed. “And impressive.”

Despite himself, Twilight smiled slightly, moving to join her. “Yes,” he agreed. “And Shopkeeper…?”

“Oh, I suppose since he told you himself… Yes, the Shopkeeper was my mentor,” the tension eased marginally from her expression. Is it possible he really is the head of Garden…? Yor smiled a little at Twilight. She divulged quietly, “He liked you.”

Unsure how to respond to that and so only filing it to report to Handler later, Twilight shifted his focus to the door in front of them. “Do you know what room might hold the Winged Victory replica?”

“Um, no,” Yor rose to her toes, dropped down to her heels, then started rotating her wrists. “Last time I trained here there weren’t rooms? I’m not sure exactly what they mean, to be honest.” Worry stole into her voice as she continued, “I also don’t know what they mean by clear a path? Or of, of course I know what that means, but they can’t mean for me to really fight people here, can they?”

Twilight doubted it, but couldn’t with certainty say. “It’s only a trial,” he temporised, and glanced away when Yor took that as reassurance. He adjusted his gloves again — twice now, Twilight? — as Yor kept clasping her hands and unclasping them, her shoulders curling in before she forcibly rolled them straight again. With a huff, she folded forward, touching her fingers to her toes.

We can’t both be nervous, Twilight thought irritably. It is only a trial.

“Listen, Yor,” Twilight began under his voice. She turned her head, looking up at him from the corner of her eyes. “We’ve worked together before,” no need to state those circumstances. “We have nothing to worry about.”

Yor bit her lip. Then set her chin, and nodded. “You’re right,” she said, dropping her head again for a beat before tapping the ground with her fingers and drawing upright.

She had clearly been trying but she didn't sound especially convinced. Could that mean that whatever was strange for him was strange for her, too?

What is the issue?

Annoyed to realise he was reaching to adjust his gloves for a third time, Twilight forced his hands down to hang by his sides. Focus on the mission. It would be a rare operative who matched Yor’s skill and he had never worked with finer; he could leave her to her mission. He to his.

Retrieve the dossier. Located in the safe, in the room with the Winged Victory replica. Yor would clear the path.

He could practically do that with his eyes closed. Undoubtedly the same was true for Yor. There was no issue.

The door opened. With a final glance, they stepped through.

 

---

 

Twilight had to veer at the last second to avoid tripping over Yor’s calf when he launched left and she lunged right at the exact same moment.

 

---

 

Yor’s targets were not real people but that made them, strangely, more erratic. Mechanised oddities of foam, if Twilight’s quick assessment was correct, and weighted somehow to give them heft.

Yor was superlative.

She also faltered if she felt him watching.

And he shouldn’t have been watching, except that he needed to wait for her to clear each room and there wasn’t much else to do.

And it was instructive (and a pleasure, exhilarating) to watch her work. Speed, precision, creativity. The swiftness of her assessment and the exacting way she enacted whatever plan she created —

… Except when she knew he was watching. When she would stumble or look away at the wrong moment or miss obvious hits or —

He tried three times to support her instead of standing there like a bell-end while she worked. It made things worse. Then Yor took a blow that she should easily have dodged and also would have resulted in serious harm if it were an actual blade.

In the fourth room, Twilight took to staring at the wall nearest to him as Yor worked, until she vocalised an all clear.

 

---

 

That ploy appeared to work until they came to a locked room. A bit obvious, Twilight groused, rummaging through a convenient chest of drawers for improvised lock picks. Behind him, Yor stood on guard by the door they’d entered, clearly more at ease now that he was fully occupied.

The lock was laughable. Twilight frowned, taking hold of the handle, twisting it —

Clunk.

Yor was by his side. “Was that a —”

“Detonation trigger,” Twilight agreed through grit teeth. Given the reality Yor’s automaton targets, the bomb would not be a true explosive either. But rather — “Something to embarrass us,” he muttered.

“Embarrass us?!”

“Paint,” Twilight speculated. “Perhaps glitter.” He shook his head, keeping his hand steady on the handle. “If I release the handle,” he said for Yor’s benefit, “The explosive will detonate. Undoubtedly it’s also on a timer. Opening the door fully will also trigger it, but there may be a small window… Yor, please can you look in the cabinet for anything I could use to slice?”

The bladeless, wooden batons Yor had been using against her opponents would be useless. She went immediately to the cabinet, opening and closing drawers, doors, until finally she came back. “This is all I could find,” she said, worriedly, presenting a rusty Suiz Army Knife. Twilight sneered. Dirty play, Handler. But Yor misunderstood, saying urgently, “I’ll look again!”

“No, not you, Yor,” he said. “It’s —” No. He wouldn’t complain out loud, wouldn’t give Handler the satisfaction. “Please can you pass that to me? Thank you.” Fingers closing around the knife, he repositioned himself as best he could for the awkward work. “Without seeing the bomb, I don’t know what detonation will look like. In case I fail to disarm it, please go to the other side of the room to avoid whatever comes out of it. Only one of us needs to be humiliated.” Any issues so far had been his fault, Yor had been exceptional; this would be his failure.

“No.”

“… No?”

“We’re, we’re a team,” Yor said, under her voice and insistent. He wanted to look at her, but she was standing just outside of range to turn his head without disturbing his hold on the door. She went on in the same tones, “We… we succeed or we fail together. Like how you were helping me in the other rooms.”

“Helping you?” He stared impassively at the door.

“I know you realised w-why I was making rookie mistakes,” she whispered. “And why you started looking at the wall. You… you kept me from being embarrassed. So I. I'm going to keep you from being embarrassed.”

Twilight breathed out. Ignored that it was shaky. “I’ll be embarrassed if you get hit, Yor.”

“So I’ll keep us from being hit,” she said stubbornly. But then, staunchly, “But I don’t think either of us will be hit.”

“Yor—”

“I’m not leaving you,” she not-quite snapped, it was the nearest he’d ever heard her to sounding annoyed while sober.

He grit his teeth — novel, to feel mixed frustration and affection, touched and annoyed. More bizarre still that something thrilled, his chest filling — he loved her, stubborn, loyal, formidable.

And she needed to get the hell back so she didn’t get covered in slime.

There probably wasn’t any time for this. Twilight exhaled sharply, let it go. “Okay. I’ll open the door enough to be able to take a look at the bomb, assuming it’s on the door frame. Assuming there are wires I can access, I’ll attempt to disarm it. If at any point I believe it will go off, I’ll say Now, and we need to get clear as fast as possible. Understood?”

“Understood,” Yor affirmed beside him.

“All right. In Three. Two. One.” 

The bomb adhered to the wall at his eye level, and Twilight’s first guess of paint was shown immediately to be correct by the enormous bright blue container where high powered explosives would normally be. In another piece of trickery, he didn’t need a knife at all. The door was on a trip wire, but the bomb itself was simple. 

How much time had they wasted? Getting the knife? Debating? When all he needed to do…

Was…

Pull —

The wire popped out — but the low ticking didn’t stop and, I was wrong?!

“Now!”

Yor’s response time was excellent, launching him back before he finished saying the word — however, he’d also missed entirely the mechanism that propelled the door wide so paint not only sprayed outward but rebounded into the room. Catching the cuff of his trousers. The side of his shoe. And Yor’s entire right side.

 

---

 

Each flash of blue from either himself or Yor’s side spiked his irritation, but they finally reached the room with the Winged Victory of Samothrace replica in it. After looking at the replica with wide, interested eyes and mouth opened in a awed o — a reaction Twilight filed away for reference later — Yor took a lookout spot by the door.

Locating the safe was simple; its lock mechanism wasn’t complicated; he was incensed. It became easy. He retrieved the dossier, secreting it into his jacket, and upon closing the safe and re-locking it, a gong sounded from somewhere, reverberating through the room, seemingly skimming over the top of the ceilingless walls. The trial was done.

Yor glanced at him. Twilight didn’t meet her eyes.

 

---

 

Handler and the Shopkeeper were waiting when they exited the room with the safe. It took a great deal more discipline and energy than Twilight wanted to ensure his expression was blank, his body language neutral. Beside him, Yor made no such effort. Without looking at her, Twilight felt her beside him as heavy.

The Shopkeeper lifted a tea cup to sip as Handler stood with her hip cocked and her arms across her chest. There was an extended silence.

Then the Shopkeeper said, “That was…” trailing away.

“Dire,” Handler supplied.

Yor winced. Twilight seethed behind the wall of his neutral facade. The Shopkeeper said, “Thank you. I was going for tact but the only word I could think of was dismal.” His jaw ached from the effort to stop himself gritting his teeth.

Handler shrugged. “Sometimes there isn’t room for tact.”

“I quite agree.” The Shopkeeper turned his attention back to Yor and Twilight. “What happened?”

“We’ve seen the results of your partnered work,” Handler added. “The work at the facility where Anya had been kept was flawless. For all it broke our protocol. But that’s what I would expect from you, Agent Twilight.”

“And I, you, Thorn Princess,” the Shopkeeper agreed. “So I ask again, What happened here?”

Twilight breathed out slowly through his nose. “At the moment,” Twilight said, forcing his voice even, carefully extracting any stiffness from his delivery. “Thorn Princess and I are not entirely in sync.”

“Ah,” the Shopkeeper said, taking another sip of tea. “Trouble in the marital home?” And he laughed.

And Handler laughed.

Twilight did not laugh. Nor did Yor. He felt her eyes slide to his face but he couldn’t react or respond or reassure her, not in front of Handler, not with everything so precarious for them, for the Forgers, for Anya at WISE.

He had miscalculated. He never should have requested space or time, never mind accepting it: they had needed to discuss this. He needed to have explained the situation to her. This wasn’t her world, it was his. What did his feelings matter when they were in a tense, ongoing negotiation with their own underworld organisations, who were simultaneously using them as tools in their own evaluatory aims and manoeuvrings. He had no time and he had no space. He and Yor, they had no time and no space. What had he been thinking? The focus should always have been survival. Maybe, at a different point, there would be room for that careful mediation they’d been having with one another. But now there were more immediate —

“Mm, Shopkeeper,” Yor said unexpectedly, louder than usual, “Don’t tease!” Twilight glanced at her; was she drawing their attention away from him? To his astonishment, her tones turned scolding as she continued to her mentor: “I feel bad enough as it is.”

“I apologise, Thorn Princess. You’re right, of course. This is serious.”

“It is," Handler agreed. "We’ve chosen you for our trial because you’re already aware of one another. This protects our agents —”

“— and our operatives —”

“— While we finalise our arrangements. You two also represent the best of both of our organisations.” Handler lifted a hand to massage her temple. “Obviously there are many factors for a team working well with one another. If you fail, we’ll try again with others. But we both believe there is no reason for you to fail.” She let that hang between them. “Do you agree, Agent Twilight? Thorn Princess?”

“Yes,” Twilight said. She was right. There was no reason for them to fail. They had too much at stake with Anya’s safety. And what was at risk if Strix were to fail…

Less certainly, Yor echoed, “Yes.”

“Well,” the Shopkeeper said quietly, and Twilight met his gaze. For the first time that morning, the Shopkeeper appeared sombre. Twilight searched the other man, but couldn't determine what was motivating the shift in his mood. The Shopkeeper only went on seriously, “I suppose we’ll see your progress at the next trial.”

 

---

 

Yor seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, that they needed to speak. Unlike the last few nights, she remained in the living room as Twilight readied Anya for bed.

Anya fell asleep as he read to her, soft snores, her mouth falling open. Her sleep cap had fallen askew: she would complain about the cold come morning if he didn’t right it… 

Bending to give Bond a pat where he curled next to Anya’s bed, Twilight closed the door silently behind him and went o join Yor. She had taken her spot on the couch; Twilight took his habitual spot in the single seater at the top of the coffee table.

“I was wrong,” Twilight began without preamble, ignoring the bitter in the back of his throat, the sick drop of his stomach. His mind prompted the question of when or if he and Yor may ever sit like this again, in ease, and —

What he wanted didn’t factor any longer in the immediate. Watching Anya bounce in her seat at the dinner table, telling them about her day…

Something gnawed at him. There wasn’t time, space, for navigating the tangle of what might be between himself and Yor, trying to counterbalance his own wants with what was possible. Nothing was possible for himself. The only acceptable actions were those he could do for them both to keep them safe. They couldn’t afford greater scrutiny from their organisations. Yor would help, in a professional capacity, and that would just have to be how they were at home, too.

It was practical. Necessary. Intellectually, it was the right choice. And yet.

I don’t want to do this.

He closed his eyes for a beat, pushed down the revolt in his chest.

“What… were you wrong about?” Yor prompted.

Twilight opened his eyes. Met hers. He was going to hurt her — he hadn’t wanted… the way she had looked at him at the safehouse when he hadn’t been able to answer her, Aren't we friends — he’d never wanted to see that expression again.

A pit opened in his stomach at the prospect. Another want he shouldn’t have allowed himself to entertain.

It would only be worse the longer he left it.

“I realised today that I don’t have the luxury of space,” he said, not ungently. “I can’t take time. Yor, what I want isn’t… I should have warned you about the state of things with my organisation. I hadn’t considered that because I got carried away.” A common occurrence for him when it came to Yor. He would need to put paid to that once and for all. “I shouldn’t have gotten carried away. I’m sorry.”

Yor frowned at him. Studying her, he thought it wasn’t an angry frown, but rather a considering one. “Do you mean… You want to… force yourself to, to talk to me?”

Put like that, it sounded awful.

And incorrect in any case.

Twilight shook his head. “That isn’t what I mean.” A grain of truth. “I don’t have to force myself to talk to you, Yor.” Given the speed and depth of Yor’s blush, something must have come through in his voice that he hadn’t intended to share. He bulled on, “I mean that I can’t afford…”

What? To get close to her?

That is it, Twilight, tear off the bandage —

“I think I know what you’re going to say,” Yor said before he could continue. Her hands tightened in her lap. “And respectfully, I think you weren’t wrong then. You’re wrong now.”

“Yor —”

“Please, Twilight,” she said quietly. “Please let me finish.”

“… Go on.”

She drew a deep breath that shook at the edges. “I’m not… I don’t know what you think happened this afternoon,” she began slowly. “But I think… it was one trial. Our first trial. And you were right, we’re not in sync at the moment.” She slumped and tipped her head back to look at the ceiling. “I wish we didn’t realise it in front of the Shopkeeper,” she moaned, “Oh, and Handler.” Then dropped her head again to look at him, her expression soft in a way that went straight to tenderise his heart. He tried to defend against it, but the gentleness in her voice as she continued redoubled the barrage, “I realised how much it means to me when you and I are in sync. I realised how much better I feel. And I think… maybe that’s true for you, too?” But without waiting for him to answer, a kindness as he wasn’t sure what the answer would be, she continued, “It made me think about how… Twilight,” she whispered. “How good we are, both of us, when we’re in sync.”

He ought to disagree. But what would that accomplish? Longing was acute, throbbing in concert with his pulse suddenly persistent in his ears, and they both knew it was true.

Conceding that… Even in his own mind, it was as though a spot light landed directly on him, exposing as it would be in the midst of an infiltration. Of course in those moments he had his own tactics, now, to avoid capture.

In this moment…

It was the same and it wasn’t. Yor was attempting to find him, the metaphor fit in that regard. But her goal wasn’t capture, torture, execution.

What is her goal? What does Yor want?

His heart thumped. His skin crawled. An ache spread from his solar plexus.

When caught in a spot light, there were microseconds to make decisions. Allow capture and risk execution? Try to evade? Attempt deception? Each situation called for a different action, and he would have considered each in full beforehand.

But he hadn’t made those considerations with Yor. He hadn’t thought there was any possibility that…

How good we are, both of us, when we’re in sync.

“I agree,” he managed. Internally cringed at the begrudging tone of his own voice.

But — What does she keep hearing that I don’t intend to convey…?! — her blush spread across her throat, teased across what little of her chest he could see. It even painted her shoulders. Clenching her hands in her lap, “So I… I, I, I insist,” she said, her voice still low. “You must take space and time. Both. As much as, as you need… Please. I want… I want to be in sync with you again, and I don’t… I don’t think we can go back, to before. I think we can only go forward. Don't you?”

Had he been trying to go back…? What else could it be called, pretending their previous conversations hadn’t happened? That would have been the core of his request, wouldn’t it. If Yor hadn’t interrupted him, he would say he couldn’t afford to connect with her. But it was too late. Yor knew he wanted that. He had told her as much: that he wanted to know her. That he wanted to tell her about himself.

Only go forward, was a form of, What’s done is done.

He huffed. “If Anya ever decides to join a debate society, she would be better practising with you than me.”

“Huh?”

“You cut through my arguments to the core of an issue. Your points are reasonable and often unassailable.” He passed a hand down his face. “You’re excellent at seeing problems for what they are, Yor, and divesting of rhetorical flourishes.”

“I… I don’t know,” she flustered. Then shook her head and looked at him with wide eyes, “Does that mean you agree with me?”

“Yes,” Twilight said quietly. He hadn’t intentionally been diverting; he’d need to be more mindful of that. “Yes, it means I agree.”

Yor slumped in relief. “There’s just one… Twilight, can I make a request?”

Another? “Of course.”

“It’s… I’ve realised,” she said softly. “I want you to do what you need. To, to figure things out. But I wonder if… would you maybe…” she trailed away, blinked and when her eyes opened again, they were overbright. She shook her head a little, swallowed heavily. “At the safehouse, I asked you a question,” she said, apropos of nothing from his perspective. There had been many questions at the safehouse, but intuition crept into his stomach, drawing it tight. Aren’t we f— Yor went on, “You couldn’t answer me then. And that’s when I… I started to wonder if you needed... space to think. And time. And,” Yor drew a deep breath, held it, the And hanging between them, heavy with implications.

Then Yor released her breath in a loud puff, drew another and finally the rest came out in a stream of words that didn’t quite trip over one another:

“I realised that I wish you’d take that time with me instead of away from me and do you think there’s any possibility you can do that now? You don’t need to tell me what you’re thinking or anything we don’t have to discuss it or anything at all I'm only wondering whether you can consider still spending time with me? I miss spending time with you, just, just you and I. And I love Anya so much and it’s wonderful when we’re all together, the three - four of us with Bond. But it’s different isn’t it just you and I, the time we spend together. I miss- I miss- I miss you.” She gulped in a big breath. “Please can you, can you see if maybe we can still be together? That is, I mean, spend time together, somehow, even though… Oh, Twilight, I don’t think it makes any sense does it? If you need time and space away from… away from me, then how can you do that with me there —”

“Yor, stop.” Her mouth snapped shut. It was difficult to speak, too many words pressing into his mouth as something else crowded behind his eyes, filled his chest. He tried to stay upright but it was — what does it matter, Twilight? Three days ago I was sick in front of her — he folded forward, elbows hard into the soft flesh before his knee caps, points of his fingers prodding into his forehead, his thumbs beneath his eyes, squeezing his eyes closed.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Twilight muttered.

“I know,” Yor whispered miserably. “I’m so sorry, I never should have —”

“Not, no, not what you asked,” he forced out. “I think. I think I can… Most of the time, I can try to work things out with you, alongside you,” he murmured, “Instead of away from you.” He had wanted that himself only a few days ago, but dismissed it as a selfish impossibility. So tell her, Twilight.

He opened his mouth — his tongue stuck in his mouth. Not again, Twilight! Not now. But learning Yor wanted similarly — It doesn’t make sense. That wasn’t the issue though, was it? Swallowing, he imagined how Yor might react: would it be poorly? No. Never. It may not mean the same thing to her as it meant to him, but it would still mean a great deal to Yor.

Something softened in his chest, a quiet release. Swallowing once more, “I’ve been wanting that, too,” he breathed.

“Oh,” she whimpered. Then was quiet; listening closely, he listened as she cycled slowly through three breaths. He could practically count along: in… 2… 3… 4…

Until finally, “O-okay. Then what doesn’t make…?”

“How can you miss me?” He ignored Yor’s sharp intake of breath, shaking his head, grounding himself in the press of his fingertips into his skin. “I’m not… I’m not supposed to be missed. No one misses me,” the last word was more air than spoken. He looked over at her, couldn’t see her fully from between his fingers, behind his palm, but that made it easier. Later he would evaluate what was going wrong here, why this was easier for him, and how to ensure a repeat of this weakness never occur, but for now he simply needed to get through it. “I’m not supposed to be known, Yor,” he told her. “No one should know… Me.” He shouldn’t be saying this much either, but it boggled him beyond reason. If he was to make any rational plan going forward, he needed to understand this much. “How can you miss me?”

Yor stared at him, and once again he wasn’t sure he could read what she was thinking. That was, once more, entirely his own failing. Some part of him recognised her expression, that it was known to him, simply not in this context.

She sighed out, and that unknowable expression turned into something he couldn’t bear to look at any longer.

“I’m not sure I understand… exactly what you mean,” she said, voice as gentle as her expression. “But I’m… I’m not sure it’s possible not to miss you.”

“As Loid —”

“No,” Yor murmured, and from the corner of his eye he could see she shook her head. “No. I’ve been thinking about that too… I know it’s… I know that it’s complicated. And maybe I’m… Probably I’m… But I do mean you. Twilight.”

After a shaking breath, he forced himself to look at her once more. And once more half hidden behind his hand, Yor smiled at him, perhaps a little sadly, tilting her head.

After an extended pause, as Twilight watched Yor who watched him in turn, as that sensation of the spotlight faded and something eased, a marginal shift in his chest, as though something opened — he braced for alarm at that seeming crack, the exposure, but there was only a small spike, painlessly soothed. Perhaps whatever that shift was, had been so marginal that it hadn’t warranted more…? 

He swallowed. Said thickly, “Do you… want to continue learning chess?”

Tears filled her eyes and Yor clamped her lips tightly together, her hands pressing in her lap, shoulders rising to her ears. She didn’t make a sound, only nodded jerkily.

Twilight dropped his hands, exhaustion descending, weighing down his limbs. He had the strangest sensation of being turned inside out. Emotional overreach again? Ideally they would start tomorrow, but he didn’t want to risk the understanding they’d just reached. He nodded, drawing to his feet. “I… After my bath?”

“Tomorrow,” Yor countered instead. Her voice was still thick with — something, but she gave the most spectacularly terrible performed yawn he had ever witnessed, enough that amusement threaded light through the heaviness of his exhaustion as she went on to lie flagrantly, “I’m too tired tonight.”

“Is that so,” he said, and feeling mostly in control once more, allowed through some of his gratitude as he smiled at her. He would need to stop letting her do this, stop accommodating him, but for now… “Tomorrow, then.”

Yor stood and shone at him. “Tomorrow,” she agreed. As she passed him, she smiled from under her lashes, “Good night, Twilight.”

“Good night, Yor.” He watched her disappear into her room.

Notes:

Winged Victory of Samothrace is really a lovely piece. I was torn between it and The Thinker. The Thinker may take the mick out of Twilight, but I think Winged Victory works a little better overall XD

I don't know about y'all and I’m outing myself as not-a-summer-person (!) but August is feeling like a real slog, so I'm going to take a couple of weeks off posting and will be back in the first week of September! I'd originally planned to take a break once we reach something that happens in a few chapters' time, so this isn't entirely unplanned: it's just being moved up a bit 🤏 To that end, I anticipate one, maybe two more brief breaks over the next few months leading to the fic's completion ♥

 

Thank you so much for reading and I hope the rest of August is kind to you 💕 I'd love to hear what you think 💥💦♟️

Chapter 18

Summary:

Nightly chess, and a few other happenings.

 

 

[Fic formerly titled it's only me, what have you got to lose?]

Notes:

Happy September, all! This is my second attempt at posting this, being already a day and change later than intended and having made the Known Error of doing final tweaky edits on AO3, accidentally refreshing the page instead of opening a new tab 🫠💀 Otherwise, I should be back to regular posting for the next few chapters again before another short, planned break!

My thanks as always to my wonderful betas! Countrymint read this actual months ago and gave helpful initial feedback to get it locked in, thank you 💕! Briefhottubcoffee read it more recently and got into a few weeds with me, giving me some insight that's also helped sort out a future chapter, thank you 💕!

A flag for discussion of canon typical themes in this chapter.

Across from him, Yor stared intently down at the board.

An hour and a half after Anya went to bed, Twilight had emerged from his room to find Yor in her spot on the couch, the chess board set up on the coffee table.

She had smiled at him.

Twilight had murmured greeting.

She responded only with a happy, “Mhm!”

Then he explained why the rooks were actually at the ends of the board, swapping where she had put instead the bishops, and why the bishops went where they did.

She had asked a clarifying question about the knights.

And they'd now had three games without exchanging a word. Twilight adjusted his play to match her level as best he could, but he still won handily. Each time, before resetting, Yor would study the board, but if she had any questions she kept them to herself and…

And it was calming.

Presently, she moved her queen into a line his remaining knight and one of his bishops could both take easily. Twilight pretended not to notice, moving forward a pawn instead, blocking his own line of attack.

 

---

 

The second night went much the same.

 

---

 

So, too, the third.

 

---

 

“I used to play with my father,” Twilight said quietly, watching Yor reset the board on the fourth night.

He saw when her hand faltered for a breath before moving the white knight into place. “Oh?” she asked, setting it down.

“Not often.” Switching the positions for both sets of queens and kings. “He was usually at work… And I didn’t like to play with him. He insisted.”

Yor played a pawn. “How come?”

Shrugging, Twilight moved his own pawn forward one spot and chose to interpret Yor’s question to be about his father’s motivations rather than his own aversion. “At the time, I thought my father was punishing me. Now I think perhaps it was his way of… bonding, I suppose. I liked playing soldiers with my friends in the woods or in abandoned buildings that we would sneak into. Perhaps it was his way to connect.” He captured her bishop with his rook. “I didn’t want to play soldiers with little wooden pieces.”

“Oooh…” Yor moved a knight. “Is chess like playing soldiers? I didn’t really know soldiers was a game,” she said a little doubtfully, but, Twilight thought studying her expression, without judgement. “But I imagine it would be… different?”

If he didn’t think too closely about what he was saying, it was easier. Twilight focused on the board: with Yor’s choices, he could check her in two. But that wasn’t the game. He moved a pawn. “As a child, I enjoyed playing pretend. I still find satisfaction in being resourceful,” he said, running through the new ways he could check her as she put a finger on top of one of her bishops. “I once rigged up a trap on the enemy side when playing soldiers with my friends. It was connected to a rope I held on the other side of the abandoned warehouse we were playing in. When I pulled it, it brought down empty boxes on their heads.”

“Wow,” Yor looked up at him, away from the board. “How old were you?”

“Around Anya’s age, I think.”

It was ridiculous, but he did feel a little pleased at how impressed Yor looked. “When I was six,” she told him, “I mostly just liked climbing trees.”

That made him smile. It was difficult imagining Yor at six, but somehow climbing trees made perfect sense to him. “I bet you were very good at it.”

“Hehe! My neighbour always complained to my parents about finding me in his apple tree.”

“Did you steal apples?”

“No!” Then she dropped her eyes to the board, putting her other knight into play. “I only borrowed them,” she said, looking up at him from under her eyelashes, biting her lip, a little mischievous, as she smiled.

Twilight snorted. “And you returned them…?”

“Um!” Yor fiddled with a pawn. “In return, I said thank you?”

He chuckled, which made Yor laugh. He had laughed with Yor before, but couldn’t recall actually listening to the way his sounded, blending with hers. It was a nice sound.

 

---

 

“When Yuri was born,” Yor said in the middle of a game the next night, “I thought he was a demon sent to torment us.”

Startled, Twilight laughed. He covered his mouth, reining himself in. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh —”

“Hehe, I hoped you’d laugh.” She closed her eyes as she smiled at him, faint colour touching her cheeks, and his face heated in tandem. Stop that.

“He wouldn’t stop crying,” she complained, putting a pawn into play. “I just wanted some sleep.”

“Reasonable,” Twilight said.

“I’d read in a book that if you pasted a monk-blessed paper on a demon, that the demon would vanish,” she went on. “I hadn’t ever met a monk, so I ignored that part. And I didn’t know that paste was glue. So I wet some papers I took from my father’s diary and threw them on top of Yuri while he slept, and hoped that would be good enough.” She laughed again. “When he shivered and started sniffling, I thought it was working! But he caught a cold instead.” She winced. “My mother gave me a long lecture about how to actually recognise demons.” Yor raised a hand, started ticking things off on her fingers. “Yuri had none of the horns and he didn’t smell like rotten eggs — sometimes he came close,” she laughed, and Twilight smiled. “And he didn’t speak in a scary voice. He didn’t speak at all, of course.” Her smile faded and she started fiddling with the rook she had captured from him. “I feel a little guilty about it now,” she said. Then lifted her eyes to meet his. “Isn’t that silly?”

Twilight held her eyes for a beat, then shook his head, looking down at the board. “You were seven at the time?”

“Mmm, maybe eight?”

Given everything that happened, Twilight wondered if the guilt actually came later, after Yor had become responsible for Yuri’s well-being.

“I think it’s understandable,” he said quietly, queenside castling his king. “You probably thought you were saving your family. And Yuri probably already had the cold, for what it’s worth. The wet paper was unlikely to have given it to him. No harm done.” Twilight glanced up. “Did he stop crying though?”

Yor was looking at him again, in that way she did sometimes when he said something — he was realising — that lifted some burden she carried. Sometimes she said things in these moments that he didn’t know what to do with.

He swallowed as she stared, and stupidly felt his cheeks heat the longer she did.

Just as it became intolerable, Yor shook herself. “Um,” she said, releasing him, looking to the side as though trying to remember something. Then, “Oh, no. Poor Yuri! He had colic. He didn’t stop crying for another few months.” She paused a beat. Then her eyes widened. “Oh please don’t tell him I told you that! I'm not sure why, but I don’t think he’d like for you to know!”

That was probably correct, and, equally, Twilight found it inexplicable; colic was very common among infants.

Regardless. “I doubt it will come up,” he replied, and when Yor still looked a little worried, he added, aware of the irony, “Your secret is safe with me.”

 

---

 

They were called in for their next trial. This was at a WISE training facility — WISE didn’t have many within Ostania, but Westalis had arranged a few locales where they came up with various covers to keep civilians away and officials from prying. This one was more a glorified obstacle course towards the edge of the city, and Handler was wry, “A little easier, this time. Just a game of tag.”

“Tag?” Twilight asked sceptically. Should we be insulted?

The Shopkeeper was amused once again. “We noted that Thorn Princess had something on you by way of speed.” It was a fair assessment; Twilight nodded acknowledgement. “The goal is for you, Agent Twilight, to ‘tag’ Thorn Princess. She will have a head start, of course.”

They probably should be insulted.

Glancing at Yor, whose eyes sparkled at him, Twilight inclined his head in acquiescence.

He failed readily. This time it didn’t bother him. Yor was in her element, and that was motivation enough to find greater acceleration, more speed, scant energy for an added burst, in those few times she disappeared from view. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She slipped up a tree, gave him a cheerful wave, and then back-flipped to the other side.

He never really stood a chance.

 

---

 

“That’s probably enough for that one,” Twilight stopped Anya before she drowned the little sage seed. “Why don’t you give the strawberry some water now?”

“Missus sage hasn’t grown,” Anya grumbled, stomping in her rain boots to the strawberry. “It’s been a month —”

“It’s been less than one week,” Twilight corrected dryly. “Germination can take time. It isn’t only the seed or our care, it’s also about the weather, the temperature… Lots of things can impact when a seed grows.”

He glanced at the edelweiss. Then crouched in front of it and beckoned Anya over to join him. “But look — this has already grown at least a few centimetres.” And it had. He thought a second bud may even be forming.

Anya squinted at it. “Looks the same.”

“It’s three centimetres taller.” Anya tilted her head and before she could disagree, he pointed to the shoot with its slightly bulbous head. “And here, a second bud is forming.”

“… That’s a twig.”

“A shoot,” Twilight corrected.

“Like Bondman’s gun?”

“Er. No. I’m not sure how those words ended up sounding the same, but in this case it means the first stem and leaves. Look closely at the end of the shoot. Do you see how it’s a little rounded?”

Any bent, putting her face near enough the little plant that Twilight worried for a moment she would poke her eye with it. She didn’t; she only peered at it intently, brows pulled down and mouth pulled into a moue. “Maybe,” Anya said, sounding unconvinced. “But hardly at all.”

“Well then… why don’t we all keep a close eye on it over the next few days? We can see if I’m right. And why don’t you bring out a ruler tomorrow so we can measure?”

 

---

 

“I have a high tolerance for alcohol,” Twilight told Yor one night. He wasn’t sure exactly where that declaration came from. She had been eyeing his wine glass through dinner; he also hadn’t observed her drink any alcohol in months. Given her predilection for cocktails, he had wondered why she’d stopped.

Setting that question aside, he went on, “I still like the flavour, but part of my training was to be able to function at a normal level despite being physiologically impaired.”

“Poisons don’t affect me,” Yor replied. Twilight blinked, and Yor laughed. “I was going to mention it the other day when we, um, talked about poisons,” Flirted about poisons, Twilight thought, his palms suddenly sweating. “It was part of my training, to become tolerant to… well! Most things, really!”

It was a strange thing, to be relieved that of the many ways a person’s fragile body could die, Yor was immune to a substantial one. Especially when — I know my work is going to kill me one day — Rather, she was immune to something which was a substantial threat in their line of work.

On the other hand.

“I thought learning to function through alcohol was unpleasant,” Twilight said slowly. “What must poison tolerance training be like?”

Yor held his gaze, her eyes wide, expression shocked. Finally she whispered, “Horrible. It was horrible. And I couldn’t tell Yuri. When I came home, feeling… feeling sort of like I was inside out? I, I had to pretend I was all right. B-because of that training, most medicines don’t really work for me either. Anaesthetics, general or local, tranquillizers…” she shook her head. “And so for recovering, I was mostly on my…”

Own.

Alone.

Twilight hadn’t done poison tolerance training, but he had experienced various other which may be akin. Alongside alcohol tolerance, they'd trained him to be immune to the nearest thing to a truth serum (before Gerrulimus potentially changed that.) A strange cocktail of relaxants, stimulants and hallucinogens. Then there had been abduction training. Interrogation. Lengthy imprisonment. Solitary confinement. Forced feeding and starvation, though the latter had already been familiar to him. Labour camp conditions. Torture.

The entire point was to train to survive as long as possible on one’s own. Alone.

It saved his life more times than he could count, directly and indirectly. And given him a skills and knowledge base he could and had applied in ways different to their intention, or to inform a ploy.

Much like being immune to poisons had saved Yor. More times, Twilight imagined, than he wanted to know.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Me too,” Yor whispered.

 

---

 

At dinner the next night, Anya asked, “Papa and Mama play tag?”

Instinctively, Twilight glanced at Yor who met his look. She shrugged. There wasn’t much point in obfuscating it, he supposed.

“Our organisations have asked us to train together,” he explained to Anya. “And tag was one of the training exercises.”

“Tag like Anya plays in gym class?” she demanded, frowning at this as though she suspected him of lying.

“It is essentially the same game you play in gym class.” Although with higher implied stakes.

Yor reached over to Anya’s plate, spearing an errant carrot — Twilight thought he’d removed all of them before giving Anya her dinner. “We played because it helps your Papa be faster,” Yor explained, swirling the carrot in sauce. He’d been right; that was one of Yor’s favourite sauces. Yor said, “He had to try to catch me,” before closing her eyes briefly when, Twilight imagined, the creamy heat of the sauce combined with the sweet of the carrot, spreading on her tongue.

“Mama's real fast,” Anya said doubtfully, looking at Twilight as though he were doomed to failure.

Well. He shrugged; it was true. He hadn’t caught her.

… More practice would increase his odds.

“Say, Yor,” he said, idly swirling the wine in his glass. “At our next training, regardless of the actual task, should we continue to play tag?”

Yor sat up straighter in her seat. “How would we do that?”

“I keep trying to tag you, no matter what else is going on. When I do, we switch.”

Her eyes brightened. He had learned about Yor as they played chess that she didn't necessarily care about winning for its own sake; she wanted to learn and to enjoy herself. And… She also wanted him to enjoy himself.

Even so, he kept his expression mild — he would rather Yor choose for her own sake in this instance; there was no question of enjoying himself. Still, Yor studied him closely, and something she saw lifted her expression into a flash of delight.

What had she seen? It should bother him, shouldn’t it? Why was warmth spreading in his chest instead?

“I think it’s a very good idea that you keep trying,” Yor said cheerily, taking another bite of dinner.

Anya was squinting, her head turning from himself to Yor and back again. Then she said suspiciously, “But Papa’s… playing with Mama. That doesn’t sound like training. On Spy Wars training is avoiding torpnadoes and poison snakes. Tag sounds like play. From Papa and Mama's thoughts.”

For some reason, Yor blushed.

In the interest of accuracy Twilight conceded that, for some reason, he, too, blushed.

Given Anya was staring intently at Yor, he banked on her paying more attention to Yor’s thoughts than his own, and vacillated. There was the reasoned response — play was often a form of training — but he didn't want to rob Anya of fun. That was a lesson to learn when she was older. Because play was also still play, but that distinction may be too nuanced for her now. But that left something all the more close to an impulse he hadn’t put to words yet and —

“We’re having our own game,” Yor told Anya, her voice a little high. “It started out as one thing, training, and now… Um. Now it’s also something Loid and I do for play. Kind of.”

“Oh,” Anya said, seeming to lose interest. “Like how Papa and Mama play cheese.”

“Chess,” Twilight corrected absently. “How do you know about that? We only do that when you’re sleeping.”

Anya shrugged, cutting vigorously into her pie. “Papa and Mama always think about cheese. Can’t wait for cheese and When is it time for cheese again. Mama wants Papa to go to space all the time but also to play cheese with her and feels bad. Papa wants to play cheese with Mama but thinks that Mama might get bored of cheese. Yadda yadda. Cheese cheese cheese.” Anya stabbed into her pie. “The Queen is there but she doesn’t hold court,” she groused. “It isn’t even tasty cheese. It’s just wood.”

“That’s because it’s not cheese, it’s chess,” Twilight tried again.

And Yor added hesitantly, “And the Queen is the strongest piece on the board…”

“That’s right,” Twilight agreed when Yor glanced at him for confirmation.

Perhaps Anya would take an interest in chess? His father’s methods had not been child appropriate, but Twilight could amend lessons…

Anya was suddenly very intent on her dinner. With a sigh, Twilight glanced at Yor again. Clearing his throat, he said in an undertone, “You don’t have to worry about, ah, me going to space,” he slid a glance at Anya, but she appeared to have become genuinely occupied with dinner. “I can do that with you.”

Renewed pink swept her cheeks, skimming down to what little he could see of her chest over the line of her sweater. But her smile, teasing the curve of her lips, seemed pleased, a shine in her eyes. “And I, um, I’m not bored of anything,” she hushed earnestly. “I, I really like learning from you, Tw-Loid.”

Twilight cleared his throat, shifted in his seat, and Yor made as though to tuck her hair behind her ear except it already was. Anya swallowed her bite and declared, “You’ve overdone yourself, Papa. This pie is dishlicious.”

Overdone himself indeed.

 

---

 

By unspoken mutual agreement, that night, Twilight didn’t comment again on what Anya had revealed of Yor’s thoughts, and Yor didn’t say anything more about what Anya had revealed of his.

They did decide the new rules of tag, though.

“One day I want to play against your traps and anything else you can make,” Yor said with a small bounce in her seat, her eyes shining. They hadn’t discussed traps since that first night, how did Yor know…? “But for this game, should we keep the focus simple? You know, just whether you can catch me the normal way?”

“Hmm… I tag you in the chase or I don’t?”

She nodded. “Mhm! See if you can catch me,” she said, smiling. Then tipped her head and raised her fingers to cover her mouth as she laughed behind closed lips. “Do your best!”

 

---

 

“Today the trial is for you, Thorn Princess,” Shopkeeper said. Humour remained an undercurrent to his tones, Twilight noted, and they deepened as he went on, “I've dubbed this trial I, Spy.”

Twilight glanced at Handler, who barely resisted rolling her eyes, though there was also a twitch in her cheek. “Agent Twilight, you’ll have thirty minutes to set up a room in what manner you see fit. Defensively, offensively,” she waved a hand as though this explained things. Beside him, he could practically hear the spin of Yor’s thoughts as she tried to figure out exactly what they were saying. Twilight was starting to get a sense. “Thorn Princess, you will then have a timed test. Find as many of the traps or hazards, diversions or distractions, what-have-you that Agent Twilight has set for you. We’ll repeat this a few times.”

Deeming this a trial was as much a misnomer as tag had been: it was far closer to training. Yor was excellent at reacting, at quick resource assessment (though the resource was often, it seemed, herself) and deploying an offensive, a counter attack or defence. In fact, he suspected she was superior to himself in that skill and he ranked himself highly. It was also clear from Anya’s retrieval, their two previous trials and her performance in chess, that Yor wasn’t one for advance strategy.

If tag had been something of an insult, this at least seemed more reasonable. He approved.

Though he also did not display his abilities to their fullest potential; Handler hadn’t indicated he need obfuscate but Twilight wasn’t about to hand Garden (or, he privately, reluctantly, admitted, Handler) all his tricks.

Even with their casual closer proximity at points throughout the day, Twilight didn’t manage to tag Yor.

 

---

 

“Welcome home, Loid,” Yor’s voice floated in from the balcony as he returned home from work. “Can you, um, can you come out here?”

Shucking his coat and trading work shoes for slippers, he made his way to the opened balcony door. Yor met him with worried eyes, light on her feet, shifting her weight from one to the other. It was a discombobulating sight: as though it came from before Anya’s abduction. Yor fretful; steeling himself for whatever minor catastrophe awaited.

It was a welcome change of pace, in some ways.

He evaluated the balcony quickly but couldn’t see anything astray: a watering can nearly empty, leaves glistening with dots of water or soil newly darkened and damp. “Is something… the matter?” he asked.

Biting her lip, Yor swung her arm around to show him a sprig of lemon verbena. It was a very small sprig: six centimetres, a small spray of new leaves decorating the top three. “I broke it,” she said miserably.

A quick glance at the full plant to confirm it remained as overall lush as he remembered, before he smiled slightly. “That’s all right.”

“But it’s such a little plant,” Yor fretted. “I know it should be fine, but it’s so little, Loid, what if —”

He had plucked it from her fingers and was half-way to raising his hand to tuck it behind her ear before her jolt and soft squawk froze him in place.

What am I doing?!

It had been an idle image in his mind, how the gentle green of the new leaves would be bright in her dark hair, highlighted against the white of her headband, and how she might find it pleasant, to be accompanied by the sweet lemon scent for the rest of the evening.

But he hadn’t intended to act on it?!

“Uh.”

“L-Loid?”

“You — should tuck it behind your ear,” he said haltingly, his own ears blazing. Preternaturally aware of his hand suspended between them, Should I drop it?! But then he would just have to raise it again to hand it to her if she agreed…? “The main plant will be perfectly fine. And you’ll look- the scent, when you —” What am I saying?? He cleared his throat. “That is, its scent is already strong. And you’ll. Smell it.” For fuck’s sake, Twilight… He tried again, “It would be a shame for it to just be thrown away.”

“O-okay,” Yor said, and tentatively raised her hand to take the sprig back —

“Anya’s home!” Anya called from inside.

He wouldn’t name the haste with which he and Yor rushed inside to greet Anya undignified, but it skirted that edge.

He had been right though. The green was a lovely spray of colour, catching the eye even as they played chess hours later, and he noticed Yor’s eyes drifting closed as she inhaled deeply more than once throughout the evening.

 

---

 

Twilight bolted upright, listening hard. He hadn’t been asleep long; thirty, thirty-five minutes at most. But something had set his heart pounding —

And his mind was fixated on Anya.

He threw the comforter aside, landing silently on the floor on the balls of his feet, he moved quickly to the door.

Listening again — nothing — but then, a soft sniffling, and Yor’s voice, low, and steady. She was speaking quietly enough that he couldn't make out every word, but it sounded like she was apologising for something, and now — she offered a soft cooing.

With no threat to avoid alerting, Twilight found his slippers, then opened his bedroom door normally, stepped into the hall making the regular amount of noise. Anya’s bedroom door was open, as was Yor’s, a soft glow emanating into the hall. He was fairly certain he knew what was going on, and could probably leave it to Yor…

Except. He remembered Anya’s tears, in the van and after they discussed her painting, and he didn’t want to leave it to Yor.

He knocked on Yor’s door lightly, waited with borderline impatience for the 0.5 second delay before Yor said, “Come in, Loid.”

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Yor had Anya gathered close to her chest, Anya’s face tucked into the crook of Yor’s neck. Bond was lying on the floor beside them, greeting Twilight with a slow wag of his tail.

“Anya had a bad dream,” Yor told him, confirming his suspicions. There’s something else though. Yor’s face was pale, wan, and her eyes were wide. She looked guilty, which made no sense until — “I don’t know how it happened,” she whispered, “But I, I didn’t wake up until Anya said Mama beside the bed, and instinctively…” She trailed away but her eyes strayed to what Twilight had missed — Missed? — when he entered. The warm gold of her bedside lamp glinted from the sharp point of a short dagger.

“Anya —”

“Is all right,” Yor said hurriedly, Anya clutching closer to Yor’s chest. “I stopped before… But it gave Anya a fright, didn’t it?” Yor cooed, pressing her cheek to Anya’s head, tightening her hold. “I’m so sorry, Anya,” she said regretfully. “And when you were already upset.”

“I’ll get some water,” Twilight said, and after a moment, asked, “And tissues?” departing on Yor's nod.

By the time he returned, Anya was still ensconced in Yor’s hold, but she was facing outwards, back pressed tight to Yor’s chest, legs sticking out over Yor’s knees. Had he thought only the other day that Anya was growing bigger? She looked so small, tucked up against Yor. Turning the chair from Yor’s vanity around to face them, Twilight sat, then held out the water to Anya, Yor accepting the box of tissues. Using both hands to lift the glass, Anya looked even smaller, the mouth of the glass seeming to cover half her face. As soon as Anya finished drinking, Yor leaned around her to smile sweetly as she dabbed Anya's cheeks.

Anya stared down at her knees when Yor leaned back again.

Twilight shared a glance with Yor, then said gently, “Yor said you had a bad dream. Do you want to tell us about it?”

He couldn’t quite make out Anya’s face, her hair obscuring his view when she hung her head that way. She bounced her leg, and didn’t say anything.

After another shared glance, Yor said tentatively, “It helps me, to talk about my bad dreams. It’s like they get scared to come back if they’ve been told out loud.”

“That’s right,” Twilight agreed, after more silence from Anya. It was unsettling, Anya’s reticence. Was the dream that scary or was she afraid to tell him and Yor? In case it was the latter… “There’s nothing you can dream about that would get you in trouble with myself or Yor.” After Yor’s sound of agreement, burying his reluctance deep enough that hopefully Anya wouldn’t be able to read it, he added, “If you want to talk to Yor alone, I can go, Anya.”

Anya raised her head at that, and Yor bit her lip, saying, “Or if you just want to talk to Tw-Loid, I can go.”

Anya's hands tightened on Yor’s arms around her middle, and Twilight’s stomach dropped. But his hurt was his own, not for Anya to worry about, so he started to get to his feet, let acquiescence rise to his tongue —

“Papa stay,” Anya said, hoarse and shaky.

He hesitated — Stay with Papa, she had asked in the van after they retrieved her, her hands clutching the neck of his shirt —

Going down to a knee to be closer to eye-level with her, “Do you want me to stay, Anya?” Twilight asked. “I don’t want to stay if you want me to go.”

But for some reason this made her eyes well with tears, and she cried, “Papa stay, Papa stay!”

For want of knowing what else to do, Twilight patted Anya’s head, murmuring, “I’m staying. Look, Anya, I’m here,” as he pulled the chair closer, and put his hand on her shin, Bond whining at their feet. “I’m staying, see?”

Anya rubbed a fist into her eye, nodding.

And still she didn’t say anything.

Sharing a worried glance with Yor, Twilight didn’t know what to say. Should he ask again about her dream? Reiterate dreams couldn’t get her in trouble? Or leave her be until she volunteered it herself — if she volunteered it herself? There wasn’t much point in pushing the issue, he didn’t think. That may also push Anya away which was the last thing they —

“Anya, Loid and I are both here,” Yor prompted into the quiet. “Do you want to tell us what you dreamt about?”

Anya shook her head.

… A different tack then? But what? Yor’s dagger glinted in the corner of his eye and… well, if Anya didn’t want to discuss the dream tonight, why not something that might cheer her up?

“Do you want to hear about the mission I had where I had to pose as a bear trainer?” Much amended, obviously, for both confidentiality reasons and to avoid some sticky particulars, but as Anya lifted her head, eyes going wide, and Yor also looked at him in anticipation, Twilight started to tell the story.

Eventually that became Anya telling them everything she knew about the bears at the zoo. After that, and after she had had a second glass of water, after she had crawled from Yor’s lap for a hug from Twilight, and perhaps most importantly, Twilight thought wryly, after she had given an enormous yawn, Anya peered up at Yor from where she was increasingly slouching in his lap and asked, “Can Anya sleep with Mama tonight?”

“Oh, of course, Anya,” Yor hushed earnestly, bending closer so she was eye level with Anya. “Do you want Mister Chimera to come too?”

Anya nodded, wiping her hand under her nose, and Yor tousled her hair as she passed on her way to Anya's room.

Twilight asked, “Is there anything else you want, Anya?”

She knocked her head hard into his sternum when she wriggled, trying to look up at him to answer. “Can Papa tuck Anya in?”

Warmth spread through his chest, emanating from where she’d knocked her head. “I can do that,” he said softly.

She made a little happy noise, then after a moment, said expectantly, “Can Papa tuck Anya in now?”

“Oh. Sure.” He got to his feet as Yor came back with Mister Chimera, Agent Penguinman and the lion she had got at the zoo.

“I thought it best to get them all?” she whispered hopelessly to him. There was no way they’d all fit in the bed, but that probably didn’t matter.

“Anya has asked me to tuck her in,” he replied. Then added hurriedly, “If you don’t mind, that is!”

“O-of course!” Yor dropped the toys unceremoniously on the bed, then gestured, “Over that side, I think, if that’s okay, Anya?”

Anya nodded, reaching her hands out. “Mister Chimera?” she asked. Yor quickly passed him to her.

Circling the bed, Twilight pulled back Yor’s comforter, carefully setting Anya down. She pushed Mister Chimera into Twilight’s hands, then squirmed and rolled, going from sitting, into lying down before reaching out for her toy once more.

“Comfortable?” Twilight asked when she finally settled, and on Anya’s nod, he covered her with the comforter again, tucking it in around her legs and up under her arms, arranging Mister Chimera’s legs. Then, unexpected shyness as he felt Yor watching, he bent and pressed a quick kiss to Anya’s forehead.

As he rose, before he could say good night, Anya said, “And now Papa stay?”

“Oh, uh.” He glanced at Yor, but the stricken look on her face answered that question. Smoothly, ignoring the irrational pinch in his chest, he went instead to get the vanity chair once again, and, sitting down facing Anya, “I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he said, “Then I have to go back to my own room.”

After a moment, Yor slipped under the covers herself, lying on her side, propped up on her elbow, looking at Anya, she touched her other hand to Anya's stomach, rubbing gentle circles.

The pinch in his chest spread as a dull ache, more difficult to ignore. His own hand passing over the ache did little to quell it, but it also didn’t make it worse. The pressure was grounding, easier to return to his thoughts. Then again — he’d been conscious of curtailing certain trains of thought when Anya was in range, contemplating ways to- regardless, it had made him realise, he thought a great deal. Not entirely unusual, he was sure, but he wondered — without lingering on the specific — what that was like for Anya. Given her reticence tonight, her dream may have been about him or about Yor. Could it have been inspired by either of their thoughts? Both? Pressing his hand more firmly to his stomach bolstered against a wash of queasiness, and perhaps he should try to keep his mind as empty as possible now, to help Anya sleep.

… just because he couldn’t remember a time when he’d kept his mind empty didn’t mean it was something he couldn’t accomplish.

“Papa can think,” Anya mumbled and Twilight flinched, meeting Yor’s questioning expression with a grimace. “Anya likes the noise of Papa's thoughts.”

“I see,” he said stiffly. Then relented to Yor's curiosity, “I… think a lot,” he withstood the flash of amusement on Yor’s face. “And I had just thought to myself that I should clear my mind for Anya to fall asleep. But she…”

“… Likes the sound of your thoughts,” Yor repeated, undeniably fond, her tones landing with pinpoint accuracy into the aching knot in his solar plexus and prickled heat throughout his entire body.

He cleared his throat, looking towards the ceiling. But what could he think about? Not mission work, though he suspected that would be of interest to Anya — who did indeed widen her drooping eyes. He gave her a dry look, and she blinked innocently at him. Something he could focus on, but which would bore…

He  snorted. There was one topic of interest. The next chess strategy he intended to teach Yor was the four knights game — Anya wrinkled her nose — a simple opening gambit but one with advantages against several other developed points of play, such as…

Anya’s eyes shut fully within ten seconds. Her breathing evened in thirty. Her mouth fell open at minute two, and Twilight was confident that meant she was fully asleep.

“What did you think about?” Yor asked, looking down at Anya in wonder.

Twilight didn’t let himself smile when Yor glanced up at him. “Chess,” he said, getting to his feet and returning the chair to sit before Yor's vanity.

Yor hummed knowingly, the back of her neck turning red. A glint caught Twilight’s eye — after a brief hesitation, he stooped and picked up Yor’s dagger.

“Can I put this somewhere for you?” he asked quietly.

Yor turned to look over her shoulder, blanching as upset stole across her features. He held it out to her, and she secreted it before he could track where her hand had gone.

“Don’t worry about it, Yor,” Twilight murmured, resisting the outlandish urge to kiss the top of her head as he’d done with Anya. Throat dry, he went on, “In the morning, Anya will think it was exciting.”

“Do you think so?” Yor asked, twisting her neck to look up at him again.

He nodded. “It’s exactly the sort of thing our daughter loves.”

“I… suppose that’s true,” Yor murmured doubtfully, turning back to look down at Anya who had started snoring softly.

There wasn’t much reason to linger, no matter how heavy his feet were. Twilight said quietly, “Good night, Yor.”

“Oh. Right… Good night, Twilight,” she whispered.

In his room, Twilight shut the door silently behind him, and lingered there. Only for a moment. Whatever else, he reminded himself, That life isn’t mine.

… Why isn’t that convincing? It hadn’t been unconvincing previously. Yor doesn’t want me there, he tried instead. But that didn’t seem… for all he could still see in his mind’s eye her stricken expression when Anya asked him to stay, there was something imprecise about his conclusion. An imprecision that wore at him, frustrating, he couldn’t resolve it with what he knew…

I don’t want to be there, fell especially flat, standing wearily in the dark solitude of his room.

That jolted him. Pull yourself together, Twilight. Returning to bed held an aversion, but there was work he could be doing in that case.

 

---

 

Twilight had only just put the last piece on the board when finally Yor cracked: folding forward, burying her face in her hands, she moaned into her palms, “I can’t believe I pointed a dagger at Anya…” She shook her head, then, muffled, admitted, “You were right. She did tell me how exciting that was when we got up this morning.”

“Mm,” Twilight agreed.

“But how could I do that?” She cracked her fingers to peek at him. "It’s exciting for her now but she was so scared last night.”

Twilight hesitated. “When was the last time anyone entered your room while you were sleeping?”

Yor’s eyes blinked at him between her fingers. “Not since Yuri was little. Maybe when he was ten or eleven? For the same reason as Anya, I think.”

“So nine or ten years ago. And since then, what have you spent most of your professional life doing?”

Slowly, she lowered her hands, drawing upright. “I know what you're trying to say,” she said quietly, her eyebrow dipping, lips pursing. “But that doesn’t excuse me pointing a dagger at Anya.”

“I didn’t say it was an excuse,” Twilight pointed out. “You asked how you could have done it.” He inclined his head, putting a knight into play. “Someone unexpectedly entering your room in the middle of the night would startle anyone. It just so happens you have more reason than most to sleep with weapons.”

“Twilight.” She let out a puff of breath. He lifted his eyes to hers: brow tugged down more deeply, eyes shadowed. She insisted, “She was inside by the time I woke up.”

“You were deeply asleep,” he countered. “That isn’t a crime, Yor.” She still looked unconvinced. Twilight looked back to the board, and said quietly, “I’m certain Anya knows the difference between your instinctive reaction, which didn’t hurt her, and a genuine threat, which would. At least, when I was her age, I could tell.” He took a breath, let it out slowly in counter to the uptick in his heartbeat. “My father would hit me when I upset him. The one time my Mom accidentally hit me… There was a moment where I wasn’t sure. But her reaction showed me. Like your reaction showed Anya.”

“How do you know my reaction?” Yor whispered.

Twilight rolled his shoulders, still keeping his eyes on the chess board. “Even if Anya clinging to you when I came in wasn’t evidence in itself, I know you. And so does Anya.” He did look up then, tapping his temple and smiling ruefully. “She knows you very well.” Yor’s attention stayed on his fingers as he tapped once more, and she tracked his hand’s fall back to hanging between his knees. “If you’re still worried, you could consider apologising to her again,” Twilight said carefully. “But I think any more than that and… We discussed trying to ensure Anya didn’t start- or continue, to manage the feelings of the people around her. And I… I would be concerned it would start to feel like that for her.”

“No,” Yor said softly. “I… I agree, I shouldn’t talk to her about it again. Unless she says something. I’m trying to not even think about it around her… But Twilight. Are you…” He glanced up as she shook her head. “I’m sorry about your father.”

He looked back towards the board again. “You asked the other night whether I had lost anyone. He was the first person I knew who died. Or,” he inclined his head. “Went missing, I suppose. As far as I know, he was never identified among the dead. But that doesn’t mean much in a bombing.” Flexing his hands, he closed them into tight fists, releasing again to hang loose. “I don’t know enough about him to say whether he’s the sort of person to have absconded for whatever reason…” He tried rolling the gathering tension from his shoulders again. “But it was… As a child, I had mixed feelings. That was difficult. The last time I saw him alive, we weren’t… No. He was pleased. But only because I had lied to him." Gritting his teeth, he moved a pawn into position with unnecessary force. “It was the only time I remember him being pleased with me.”

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Yor’s hand move. Don’t. Unsure if that was to her or to himself. If Yor had unexpectedly taken his hand, he didn’t know…

Pulling back into his seat and out of range of her reach, Twilight tipped his face up to meet her look. Confounding: he knew that expression of hers. It was similar to how she looked after they read Anya’s file together. Which made sense, Anya’s file was filled with details that ought to make most people feel horror and anger and sorrow. But Anya was also just a little girl. So small when those things had been done to her.

Whereas he, now, was an adult man, those things were long in the —

“Is it horrible,” Yor whispered, “That I’m glad your father is dead?”

What?

Rushing filled his ears and he had to press his hand to his solar plexus at some — some feeling there that he couldn't name.

Why did she say that?

Is that okay?

Me, too.

Shaking himself, Twilight let go of the breath he held inadvertently. Those questions — they weren’t his own, were they? They felt very young. Of course it was okay for Yor to say that. She was only voicing thoughts and feelings; thoughts and feelings didn’t hurt anyone. The things people chose to do off the back of those thoughts and feelings were what mattered. And his father was far beyond anything hurting him, let alone an errant thought from a woman who hadn’t been born when he died.

And as for why… The why was a little trickier, though Twilight felt, sort of, that he could grasp it. Yor’s primary experience with justice was through death sentences. But that was the sticking point. Twilight didn’t need… he didn’t need justice… did he?

”I think,” Yor went on, voice still low, seeming to him inexorable. As though each word she spoke was inevitable, putting him in mind of a stone going smooth under the unceasing flow of gentle waters, “I think I would have killed him, if he wasn’t. There’s nothing you could have done to deserve that.”

“Yor,” grated from his throat without permission. “You shouldn’t…”

Why shouldn’t she?

“Is that… I’m sorry,” she said, drawing into herself. She straightened her spine, then bowed slightly. Her wrath on his behalf still seemed to crackle around her. Yet Twilight didn’t question her sincerity when she said, “I didn’t mean to say anything inappropriate.”

“It’s not… You didn’t…”

Gather yourself. Twilight breathed in.

Had no one… expressed sympathy to him for the way his father had treated him?

Twilight had listened to Mom scold Dad through the door, afterwards. Both when Dad was mean with words and when Dad had hit him. Mostly when Dad hit him… But Mom hadn’t ever… She had never said to Twilight that she was sorry. She had never said Dad shouldn’t be doing that. She had said to Dad that he didn’t deserve it, but she had never told him the same…

Rationally, as an adult, far removed by decades and experience, breathing out in the present, he knew. Of course there was nothing any child could ever do that deserved being slapped, or the type of belittling lectures Dad would give him.

What reasonable adult, what caring parent, called a six year old a coward?

What kind of full grown adult used their strength to beat a child, so much smaller and more vulnerable?

These were things he knew and understood. And yet. There was some part of himself, wasn’t there, that still…

“I think…” He drew a deep breath. “I think I needed to hear that,” he admitted quietly. “Thank you, Yor. You didn’t say anything inappropriate. And I…”

Why does what I’m about to say scare me?

Not enough to stop himself from saying it, but a tremble, deep in his belly. He was six again, in some ways, needing two hands to carry a steaming croquette and knees that knocked together when he ran, afraid of what might happen if he said something true.

But he wasn’t six. And Yor wasn’t going to beat him for telling her this.

Holding Yor’s gaze, mouth dry, he said, “I always want to hear whatever you have to say.”

“You…” Yor gulped, pressing her lips together, her eyes round and over-damp. Does my opinion mean so much to her…? She swallowed audibly, then whispered, “You do?”

Not certain where her intensity of feeling was coming from, Twilight nodded, smoothing a hand over one more tremble in his belly.

 

---

 

Wiping her fingers on a napkin before she forked his queen and his rook, Yor smiled at him. “I used to hate cinnamon,” she said, nodding towards the plate where her apple tart sat half eaten.

“Really?” It was easy enough to move his queen as the queen wasn’t pinned, but as he was playing at Yor’s level, it would equally be a rookie mistake to miss that she had forked both pieces… “Most apple desserts have cinnamon.”

Twilight moved his rook.

Yor’s eyes brightened when she realised his error, and she plucked her knight up, eagerly swapping her knight for his queen. “Twilight!” She clapped. “I captured your queen!”

Adorable.

“You did,” he agreed, smiling. “Congratulations.”

“I haven’t done that before!”

“I know,” he laughed. “It was a neat play.”

“If you’d moved your queen I still could have taken your rook! I forked you!”

“You did.”

“I can’t believe it,” she leaned forward, staring intently at the board. Should I help explain…? Her eyes were wide, jumping from piece to piece. She was so sweet. “I don’t think I’ll check mate you for ages and ages, maybe never, but I’ve been hoping to capture your queen. And I did!”

“It was very well done, Yor. You’re right to feel pleased.”

She drew upright, her hands clasped in her lap, arms straight, as she wiggled in her seat. Shining at him, she said happily, “Thank you so much for playing with me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he said honestly.

With another wiggle, Yor released her hands and reached for the tart again. “I’m so glad we play. I’ll never get sick of this,” she added, her eyes darting to his face. “I’m having so much fun with you.”

A wash of longing rose in him, his heart throbbed. “Me too,” he said, keeping his smile in place. The back of his neck heated as her cheeks darkened. And, what’s one more concession, Twilight? “Training is fun, too. Tag particularly.”

“Oh, it is,” Yor agreed quickly. “I had been worried, but now…” She smiled. “Now that I’ve captured your queen, it’s your turn. You have to tag me.”

He laughed. “I wish my target was more easily caught.”

Yor hummed around a bite of apple tart. As she chewed, Twilight moved a pawn for no other reason than she would be able to capture that too, and perhaps she would shine at him once more.

“I think you can do it,” Yor said encouragingly after she swallowed. “Keep doing your best! It’s only me, after all.”

It’s only me.

Humming vaguely, Twilight watched as Yor moved her bishop, opening her king to his knight. Ah, well. He would pretend not to notice that for another two rounds, and see how it played out. Perhaps she’d get this knight, too.

And otherwise, in one regard, she was right. There was only one Yor.

 

---

 

Their game of tag had spilled over into home — not a chase there, per se. The game had become more stealthy — Twilight trying to catch Yor off guard.

This iteration had been ongoing for a couple of days. He had yet to succeed. Twilight almost wished he wouldn’t.

He thought he may have a chance in the kitchen. Yuri was stopping by to celebrate some fictitious accolades from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, likely a cover for something he had accomplished with the State Security Service — I’m so proud of him, Yor had gushed when she told Twilight earlier, It’s like he helps people in the light of day, and I’ll protect them in the dark of night! From somewhere Twilight had summoned a smile and a noise of agreement. She had been humming to herself all afternoon.

Presently, Yor was humming once more and focused, Twilight thought, on measuring out the tea.

Making himself seem suitably and similarly preoccupied, arranging the mugs on the tray, as he turned to the cupboard, he let his arm go wide, stretched out his fingers —

Her elbow was a millimetre from his fingertips when Yor slid aside with a soft teeheehee.

Twilight huffed defeat and Yor’s smile grew as she turned to put the kettle onto the hob.

“One day,” he murmured, retrieving the milk jug and sugar bowl.

Yor turned to the fridge, saying thoughtfully, “I’m not sure what I'll do when you do catch me.”

“I think you’ll probably catch me in return almost immediately,” Twilight said, amused.

“Oh, you’re probably right!” Yor said, withdrawing from the fridge. “But actually I meant…” she trailed away as she turned with the milk, eyes rounding as they landed on him, watching her curiously.

Twilight frowned slightly, leaning back against the counter, opening his posture, pushing up his sleeves to appear more inviting, in case this was serious. Perhaps tag wasn’t fun for Yor any longer? She had just laughed when he’d missed her, it had seemed as genuine as her happy humming about Yuri’s visit, but she also told him how often she defaulted to smiles and laughter to cover discomfort and upset… Ignoring the cramp in his stomach, he asked, “Yor? Is something the matter?”

A flash of alarm across her face, Yor said hurriedly, “No! No, nothing’s the matter.”

There was clearly something to discuss, otherwise why would she have commented? As though she heard his thoughts, her expression turned wistful for a breath as she sighed. Then she swallowed, and to his mounting bemusement, pressed her toe into the floor. Is Yor feeling shy? What’s happening? Her voice was quieter, her smile carrying some of that wistfulness, as she said, “I was just, just thinking that actually I… I like… you chasing? Me?”

Inside him, all went still. “You… do?” Why is my voice hoarse?

She nodded, clutching the milk. “There’s something nice about knowing you’re...” She swallowed, shook her head. Being chased is- nice? “But I suppose you’re right. After you catch me the first time, then I’ll catch you, and then you’ll… chase me again…?”

So she didn’t want to stop playing. It shouldn’t have been, but it was a relief. They had worked hard and only just created a new equilibrium; learning he had been wrong about a significant part of it would have been disconcerting. But no. In actuality, it was just that she… liked? When he chased her…? 

His heart skipped, palms suddenly damp with sweat. She likes me chasing her? Stomach tightening in anticipation, his tongue was thick in his mouth, “For as long as you, we, want to play,” he said, voice dropping into a lower register. Part of his mind trying to analyse what, precisely, was happening, because surely he was missing something — as the other part monitored Yor. At some point she had drifted to stand directly in front of him. Close. He could reach out, fill his palm with her hip, urge her closer — Or if Yor took one more step —

She breathed, “‘We’? Truly?”

Her eyes on his mouth, like they’d been at the nursery but hooded now, her breathing shallow, would he feel the shift of muscles under the spread of his fingers if he touched her hip, the power of her thigh if he let his hand drift lower — Was her sweater as soft as it looked? Would her breath wash over him, cycling faster now, like his own, if he drew her nearer —

Does she feel this charge between us? It was becoming more difficult, keeping his hands to himself. Yor bit her lip. His exhale rasped. And if she does feel it, then was I…

Licking his lips, Yor released hers, her breath audibly catching, a respondent tug low in his abdomen. Another uptick in his heartrate, his hands tightening, and, “Yor —”

He reached for her — Yor stepped neatly aside —

“Oh!” she gasped, at the same time he said urgently, “Sorry, I —”

“Yahooooo, Sis!” The front door slammed open. Twilight startled. Yor jumped, then thrust the milk into Twilight’s hands, a flick of her hair and a flash of the red of her sweater as she disappeared from the kitchen.

“Yuuuri!” came her welcome, and Twilight didn’t think he was imagining the slight strain under her genuine joy.

Letting out a slow breath, I really need to remember to lock the door before Yuri’s visits. With the pretext of letting Yor and Yuri have a few minutes to themselves, he also gave himself some time, pouring milk into the little jug, arranging and rearranging the mugs, the sugar spoon this way then that.

Once he deemed he was no longer able to drag it out, rallying himself, donning his role, he forcibly loosened the tension around his eyes and plastered a benign smile onto his face.

“Yuri,” Twilight greeted warmly, joining them in the living room, and weathering Yuri’s immediate glare. “Anya is just finishing her homework and will join us shortly. For now, I understand congratulations are in order!”

Notes:

This is one of my favourite chapters so far but it is also a long one (!) and I had to do a bit of battle with the final substantial edits that I anticipated would be straight forward but weren't (more fool me!)

So especially and as always, thank you for reading ♥ and I'd absolutely love to hear from you♟️🌱🏷️

Chapter 19

Summary:

I have to speak with Yor tonight about something, he thought to Anya while he gathered some supplies. It's nothing you have to worry about, just something about your Uncle Yuri. It will probably be a long, boring conversation, so I’ve arranged for you to go to Becky’s for dinner.

Notes:

My very many thanks to my lovely betas! Countrymint, who again first read this months ago and gave reassuring initial thoughts! Briefhottubcoffee read this much more recently and once again got into the weeds with me, especially to discuss that one last minute niggle, the chapter now all the stronger for it, and while once more having other things on the go. I’m so appreciative ♥♥♥

“Part of our trust building exercise with Garden,” Handler said with no small measure of irony at his next one-to-one briefing, “Is an information exchange.”

“That’s not unexpected,” Twilight said. “Undoubtedly they’ll request information they already have and know we must also have in order to verify how honest we are in our handover, alongside the hope for some boons if we keep our word. And vice versa.” 

“Just so,” Handler said. She leaned forward sinuously, dropping her chin to the back of her hand propped on her elbow on the desk. “There is a complication.” Twilight waited. “They’ve requested we share the identities of SSS operatives known to us. Do you believe Yor Briar is aware of her brother’s affiliation?”

Yor Forger, he nearly corrected — trivially and nonsensically. Where had that come from? Far more importantly: “No. My assessment remains the same as when I first discovered Yuri Briar was an agent.”

“Hm.” Handler leaned back, resting her arms on the arms of her chair. “That’s what I was afraid of. What do you believe will be Yor Briar’s response to the knowledge?”

What I wanted at first was to protect Yuri, Yor had told him, explaining how she’d ended up with Garden. To keep him… naïve, in a way, of how awful some things in the world are, for as long as possible. And just yesterday, he helps people in the light of day, and I protect them in the dark of night.

There wasn’t much point in dissembling. Despite his own blindspots, Yor wasn’t nearly a good enough liar to obfuscate her response to learning about Yuri. “It’s unlikely to be good or even neutral.”

“Elaborate please, Agent Twilight.”

Twilight met Handler’s gaze evenly. Chose his words carefully. “Yor’s perception of herself and her assassin work is strongly tied to her sense of acting to uplift and protect Yuri Briar, who she deems an innocent civilian who, as an adult, works for the benefit of Ostania in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. She is proud of who she believes him to be.” A necessary breaking of confidence, though more a recontextualisation, given it wasn’t straying too far from what he and WISE had already known. “While Yuri Briar may argue that that’s exactly what he does as an SSS operative, my assessment is that Yor is among those who think otherwise.”

“I recall she threatened you when you tested her loyalties appearing to her as an agent.”

In his mind’s eye, he saw her again, that fluid shift into an offensive position, the tenor of her voice — if you intend to harm my husband in some way — Suppressing the reactive wash of heat, the spike in irritation that he had overlooked how her fighting stance was indicative of a well trained, highly skilled fighter, so glaringly obvious in hindsight, Twilight nodded curtly. “Exactly so. Further discussion over the months of Operation Strix indicates a similar level of fear and disdain to that of the average Ostanian, though I don’t believe it has ever occurred to Yor to actively pursue resistance or dissidence of any kind.”

“No,” Handler agreed slowly. “I expect it wouldn’t. And even if it did, she would certainly never risk Loid or Anya Forger. At least not while the deception held.”

“Agreed.” Twilight ignored the drop in his stomach.

“That being said,” Handler crossed her arms over her chest, tipping her head to one side. “Yor Briar the civilian is a different creature with different concerns to Thorn Princess. We haven’t yet determined whether Garden ever work with the Ostanian government, but without putting too fine a point on it, and acknowledging what we understand of Garden’s unique organisational structure,” Twilight almost raised an eyebrow; that was one way to describe it, “It wouldn’t be inconceivable that they did work with or for the SSS, at least upon occasion. Could that alter Yor Briar’s feelings?”

Twilight gave this the consideration it was due. Could it? They hadn’t spoken a great deal about Yor’s feelings about her work outside her desire to protect those she- cared about, but he had the impression that sense of responsibility extended outward, beyond her personal circle. Her reference to a client, and the way she had described her sense of the experience of others: their carefree lives. And the spill over into civilian life: Melinda’s descriptions of their friendship, and what Twilight had witnessed at the Veteran’s Charity Bazaar when Yor had intervened on Millie’s behalf when she was being bullied by a member of the Lady Patriots Society. To say nothing of how she mothered Anya, or how she treated he himself.

The SSS was a significant cause for alarm, for fear and anxiety. Whilst purporting security, the SSS put people on edge, a constant low-level threat. One that he felt especially keenly, but it affected nearly everyone. Yor herself had only been in the position to accept his proposal because of a threat of being reported. Not that she could have known that it was unlikely to have gone anywhere. But despite her initial insulation from normal people and a general naïveté about what life was like for them, once informed, she also was not the sort to think herself uniquely affected. Or assume that she was the only person unjustly targeted. If it was a threat to Yor, it was a threat to other women who didn’t deserve it. Who couldn’t then live their lives, carefree. And on top of that, undoubtedly she had heard stories about the SSS, those that they deliberately leaked and others which were fomented by a fearful populace…

Her reaction when she had thought her brother and himse- Loid were under threat indicated an awareness of what it meant to enter SSS custody.

From their conversation he gleaned she also understood actions taken by underworld types were made under a different decision and moral matrix than those outside it. But for she herself, there wasn’t a divide between Yor and Thorn Princess. Not at the heart of her. Who Yor was in her home life, her public life, meshed with who she was in her work. Her principles and driving motivations remained largely the same. To protect.

“No,” he answered finally. “I believe she would feel the same either way.”

“Understood,” Handler nodded. “And so? Your best prediction?”

He’d been thinking about the predicament on and off since learning Yuri’s profession; shifting its boundaries since learning Yor’s. “Three possibilities seem most likely. In ascending order of likelihood: she rejects the revelation, believing it a deception concocted by WISE for unknown purpose. The degree of her disbelief being fervent, she takes actions which destabilise not only Operation Strix but also WISE’s relationship building with Garden.”

Handler tapped a fingernail against the desktop. “Given the Shopkeeper’s surprising demonstration of confidence from the beginning, I’m forming an understanding of him and an increasing understanding of how he directs the organisation. On that basis, I suspect he would not be so easily swayed by one operative’s upset. The impact on Operation Strix is of greater concern. Next likely?”

“Yor seeks to confront Yuri Briar. She is no great liar so an intelligence breach is likely. Yuri Briar would not turn in his sister however would have no issue with arresting me.” He would relish it, in fact. “Yor’s loyalties would be divided, but the damage to Strix would be catastrophic.”

He had to resist shifting in his seat; something about being the cause for divided loyalties in Yor was unsettling.

“Most likely?”

“Yor blames herself for Yuri Briar’s choice. She typically applies herself to solving problems she deems her own fault or responsibility. What form that would take in this instance is difficult to predict. However with her skill set and how prone she is to impulsiveness...” At the varied prospects, he could practically feel his brain pumping stress hormones into his system. Handler couldn’t know the extent of his reaction. Modulating his tones to erase any trace of stress, he said dispassionately, “She would seek an outlet. Wherever she directs herself would put herself, Strix, and potentially both Garden and WISE at risk.”

Handler didn’t react or respond for a whole count of five. Then, “And you believe that is the most likely?”

“Given her employ by Garden, it is reasonable that insofar as she has ever faced this type of problem, Yor’s solutions would have historically and necessarily been violent. Suitable in those contexts but plainly not in this one.” Am I defending her? Unnecessary, stop that. “For those she loves, Yor doesn’t hesitate and she doesn’t stop.”

“Does she love you?”

Fitting, that it was only the training Handler had given him that kept him from faltering. “No.”

“Heh. Shame.” Handler tapped the desk again. Twilight swallowed, ensuring it was imperceptible even to Handler. “Does she love Anya?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” Handler descended into quiet thought.

Twilight reviewed: have I missed anything? Is there any other possibility? Would it matter, if Yor loved me? Stop that, aimed at his heart which had turned over. It was a practical question, nothing more. Confronted with the conflict between love of Yuri and love of me — no, that’s foolish. Yuri would be first. And were I disposed to in the first place, there wouldn't be time to cultivate a different dynamic even if Yor did love—

“I believe there is a chance Garden are aware of Yuri Briar,” Handler told him. “That the reason they requested the SSS list was part of the test you outlined. We could withhold his name, but I believe the risk too great. If they do know it, they may believe we’re keeping it for blackmail or other purposes. In the off chance they don’t and find out later, it could jeopardise whatever agreement we reach. Establishing this alliance with Garden may shift the balance of this intelligence cold war. So my question, Twilight: is it better for Yor Briar to learn her brother’s identity from you or from Garden?”

Twilight didn’t swallow. Didn’t clear his throat, tighten his hands, roll his shoulders. So far as he had determined, WISE believed his compromised status was predominantly limited to Anya. There had been, he conceded, cause over the months for them to wonder about Yor but so far no one had questioned him directly. The nearest had been Nightfall, but he didn't consider her a serious threat. The priority was to maintain that new status quo.

He held Handler’s gaze, kept his face as blank as it had ever been, and said evenly, “It would be better coming from me.”

“Heh. I expected as much. The handover with Garden is scheduled for two days time, thirteen hundred hours. You have until then. I know the timing is inconvenient given that planned family holiday but there’s nothing to be done about that. Report the time and place you intend to inform Yor Briar and WISE will ensure counter measures in case they’re needed.”

“Understood.” 

A failure, not explaining that there weren’t many counter measures that would work on Yor, at least, not making clear Yor’s resistance to known tranquillisers and poisons. A failure as a spy to his agency.

But not as a husband, to the confidences shared by his wife.

And which are you really, Twilight?

A vertiginous sensation answered, as something shifting, deeply anchored in the cavity of his chest.

Does she love you?

No. But I love her.

None had insinuated he was compromised regarding Yor — yet. In the weeks that passed since he accepted his feelings for her, hindsight showed they had had no shortage of reason to suspect it. Being so far unchallenged could change if he didn’t tread carefully. Formulating appropriate infallible cover explanation for what he was about to arrange would be a task for later. In the immediate, in front of Handler, delicacy of a different kind was called for.

“With the precarity of this nascent WISE and Garden partnership,” Twilight said, ensuring his tones were entirely neutral, expression and body devoid of a single indicator beyond the right amount of conviction for the words he spoke, “And taking what’s best for Operation Strix, there are a few things I’ll need. And two and a half favours I’m calling in.”

 

---

 

Twilight made arrangements.

Anya was to go to Becky’s after school. He advised WISE, who passed the message along to Garden with an excuse about a school project. There was no project, but so far as WISE understood, Garden used exclusively visual monitoring and it would be impossible for them to know whether the girls were working on a project or not. (Twilight suspected the Garden operative would not especially care one way or the other.)

Then he popped into the school. For the first time, he didn’t have to suppress dread about Anya's ability. In this instance, it was convenient: she rounded the corner and found him in his janitor disguise almost as soon as she was released from class.

Don’t call me Papa, he thought at her as she opened her mouth. Anya snapped it closed again. Ask me for something to clean a spill.

"Mister Jan’ter Ma’am," Anya said, looking up at him with guileless round eyes.

Well, that answered one question he'd had about why he hadn’t ever suspected anything. Aside from thinking telepathy was impossible.

He grunted acknowledgement, looking at her directly.

Anya raised her hands. "Can you give Anya please something to clean a spill please?"

"Good little girl," Twilight said out loud, turning to his janitor’s cart.

I have to speak with Yor tonight about something, he thought to her while he gathered the supplies. It’s nothing you have to worry about. Something about your Uncle Yuri. It will probably be a long, boring conversation, so I’ve arranged for you to go to Becky’s for dinner. The people who have been guarding you from WISE and Garden will follow you there, too, so you’ll still be safe. Okay?

Turning back to her, he raised his eyebrows, handing her a rag with some cleaner sprayed on it. “Here you go.”

“Thank you sir, please,” Anya said. She was looking at him closely, and Twilight met her gaze evenly.

Do you… understand?

Anya nodded. Then said flatly, “But what does Anya do with this?” holding up the damp rag.

Twilight stared at her blankly. Throw it in the garbage, he thought to her, raising a hand in farewell as he started wheeling his cart away. See you later, Anya. Be good at Becky’s.

Rising unbidden, he saw in his mind’s eye Yor and Anya at the safehouse of all places, playing together. Anya had been bright, and Yor had been attentive, whispering together, and of a sudden, they had dissolved into laughter as he watched, over he-to-this-day-didn’t-know-what.

The safehouse had been so difficult, and still they had created something so sweet and easy with one another.

He glanced back and added, Anya? hoping she was still listening.

When she also looked over her shoulder at him curiously, Have fun, okay? he thought to her. Then, befitting the jovial janitor of his disguise, he winked at her.

She blinked at him, then nodded with a silly salute, her face lighting up almost as brightly as when Yor had been playing with her.

Her smile, that salute, pierced him, unexpectedly, perplexingly.

He nodded and turned away sharply. He had other things to prepare.

 

---

 

Despite what he’d told Handler about his confidence level regarding Yor’s reaction… The only story she had told him about her life before they met that hadn’t been related to Yuri was about her stealing apples: and had Yuri been born, Twilight was sure Yuri would have made an appearance.

It was as if every muscle in his body was tense in readiness of some threat. But this wasn’t… Well. It was an attack, of sorts, but it was as though he were the one attacking.

Attacking? Twilight shook his head and forced a deep breath, releasing it, visualising his muscles releasing.

Yor may receive the information as though it were an attack, but that wasn’t going to be his approach. And he could take steps to mitigate that possible response for Yor. Her understanding of every decision she had made from the age of twelve through twenty-seven was through a lens of how it served to protect and improve Yuri’s life, and she herself had said she wanted him to stay naïve of awful things. Setting aside his own qualms about keeping children entirely naïve, in some ways she had been perhaps…

Never mind that. Even if Yor took no issue with the actions or motivations of the SSS, they worked hard to convince the public that their work was difficult and dangerous. Yor would likely perceive the job as dangerous, and, salt in the wound, there was no question of Yuri knowing well the awful things Yor had sought to shelter him from. So, no. Twilight would not be attacking. But with all Yor had poured of herself into Yuri’s well-being, yes, she may experience it as an attack.

He had given Handler a list of three possibilities. He took steps to account for the other twenty-six possible outcomes he hadn’t shared. Secreted nearby were seven boxes of tissues, a small first aid kit as well as his personal, more extensive one, the chess set, a defensive dummy, a flashbang modified to 8% regular strength, three comprehensive disguises for himself and two for Yor (there was no rationale for including those; exasperating, but it made him itch not to), and an assortment of contraptions in case his trust in and love for Yor meant he had completely and utterly misread her and the situation, and would need to make some sort of quick escape.

Though truthfully…

Twilight glanced at the clock, then looked at the hidden triggers for his traps.

Would I really leave…

I had to pretend to be all right. And so for recovering, her eyes had been shadowed as she spoke about poison training, I had mostly been on my…

Even imagining the worst outcome, Yor at her most lethal and for some reason choosing him as her target… Be serious, Twilight. He couldn’t eliminate that as a possibility, given how capricious she had sometimes been in the past. He was beginning to suspect those inexplicable moments may have related to her secret work but that was still supposition. He needed to be smart. Take precautions. No matter her feeling in the moment, Yor would also be upset if she somehow hurt him, so it was for both their sakes, ultimately.

… It didn’t feel as though it were for both their sakes.

Why don’t you react, she had asked him, surrounded by an undeniably threatening aura. And he had answered, I don’t believe you’ll hurt me.

In the silence of their home, his sigh sounded overloud.

No. He wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t leave her alone in that kind of distress.

Looking at the clock, he had thirty-eight minutes. More than enough time to get rid of everything.

With six minutes until Yor was likely to arrive home, he was left with the two first aid kits, the seven boxes of tissues, and had added a jug of water and two glasses.

Six minutes. What can I do in six minutes?

How should I be, when Yor comes home?

He hadn’t finished the article about the recently appointed Minister for Agriculture, a man from Donovan Desmond’s former government. He could read that. Or he had earmarked a chapter of the book he had borrowed from Professor Authen about the forging of neural pathways… At the safehouse, he hadn’t managed to finish reading The Left Hand of Darkness; they had reached an apparent safe haven with one of Estraven’s friends, and Twilight was less convinced of that apparent safety. He could attempt to finish that…

Or, he thought impatiently, I could stop avoiding the most sensible course.

As he had tidied, the closer the time drew to Yor’s return, the more he had been aware of his physiological responses. He should have been able to suppress them, or at worst, ignore them. That the tightness of his stomach, the sweat on his palms and the chill of his fingers were persisting wasn’t a good sign.

It was a strange irony, wasn’t it, that his cover as Doctor Loid Forger might give him an alternative path.

He took his seat. Pressed his back into the comfortable cushion and set his hands in his lap, palms up and open. He closed his eyes. And he let what feelings there were to be felt.

It was heavy, to be the bearer of bad news. It wasn’t something he had ever had particularly strong feelings about: information was information, which was always useful, and if he was sharing it with a target, it was for a purpose. To glean more intelligence, or in the least, take from their response some insight. Or draw them closer into the fold.

Yor wasn’t a target.

Yor was… Yor was beloved.

And it was heavy. To share with her something that was going to affect her negatively. In whatsoever way that may be. He couldn’t say what reaction he hoped for.

But… there was something else. Squeezing his eyes more tightly shut, he frowned, trying to suss the source of the ache. For Yuri?

It was, and it wasn’t. Twilight may have some associated fond feeling for Yuri, through his connection to Yor, but Yuri was hardly the first vulnerable, impressionable youth taken in by far right authoritarian propaganda and he wouldn’t be the last.

So, what is it?

The ache wasn’t… It wasn’t wholly familiar; though it held a crystalline quality. Keen edges to the clarity, as the first painful but ultimately welcome glimpse of sunlight departing a darkened building.

… Gratitude?

How bleak.

Was it?

To feel… bittersweet. Who else would I trust to convey this information to Yor? If it needed sharing, and it did, then there wasn’t anyone. Breathing deep into the ache, Twilight measured its bounds. He couldn’t truthfully say he wanted to reveal to Yor this particular secret. But. That sharpness on each breath, shining through the ache, it defined the complexity of being that person for Yor. The person he trusted was himself. And that he thought… Even if the type of partnership he sought, the mutual love he wanted, was not between them, they did share a bond, a shared regard at least. And he was fairly certain that Yor would want to learn it from him, if it had to be anyone. That it would… No, not be easier. There was no easy here for Yor at all. But he understood her, at least. However she reacted.

He opened his eyes when he heard the key in the lock.

Drawing to his feet, he returned Yor’s smile with a nod. “Welcome home, Yor,” he said, “Once you’re settled, I have an update to share with you.”

Notes:

I wrote the first draft of the first scene in this chapter (and the subsequent conversation between Twilight and Yor) about a year ago, and for all it's a tense time in the story, I'm super happy to finally be getting to this part of the story and sharing it with you at last!

 

I’d love to hear your thoughts ❤️‍🩹

Chapter 20

Summary:

Interlude II

Notes:

My many thanks to briefhottubcoffee and countrymint for advance reading this chapter and for being so encouraging as always 💕 and extra thanks to Brie who did an additional close read despite being sick 😭 and for pointing out the thing about how Berlinters might speak about Westalis 🫶

INTERLUDE II:
Seven weeks, five days, and approximately seven hours before Twilight speaks with Yor about Yuri
(Five weeks, four days, and approximately twenty-two hours before Anya's abduction)

 

Twilight stared at his clothes. I know you always dress well, Loid, Yor had said. But this time make sure you dress comfortably, too!

Strictly speaking, all his clothes were comfortable. It was necessary for Loid Forger to dress well and comfortably, as being comfortable while stylish were the norm for the social class Loid inhabited.

Privately, Twilight was grateful Loid didn’t need to fit into the higher social class which circled back to uncomfortable; a hidden boon for Yor, too, as women’s fashions could be even more unforgiving.

More practically, a degree of comfort and flexibility were needed in case he had to shift gears unexpectedly from respectable doctor Loid Forger into himself.

But Yor… what did Yor mean by comfortable? She knew his home clothes and could have specified those, but hadn’t. So… somewhere between home clothes and the semi-formal attire he normally wore for dates and family outings?

Twilight pinched the bridge of his nose. It was all well and good for Yor that she wanted to surprise Loid. It was already proving more uncomfortably complex than anticipated for Twilight.

Never mind Handler’s expression when he’d told her he couldn’t work today because Yor wanted to take Loid out on a date. He was certain he hadn’t given anything away, but still he could sense extra missions piling up as some sort of anticipatory course-correction in addition to the borderline unacceptable stack of paperwork she had sent him away with.

Allowing himself an exasperated sigh — Stop dithering — Twilight reached into his closet, and got dressed.

 

---

 

“Oh!” Yor said when she saw him, rolling up onto the balls of her feet and dropping back down. “You look perfect!”

And then she blushed. And Twilight resisted the urge to fidget. Absurd.

“Thank you, Yor,” he said easily from behind one of the affable smiles he used for Loid. Her blush deepened when he said, “You look lovely.”

Truthfully, she looked more than lovely. She had pulled her hair into a side ponytail, which remained fashionable even as it conveyed a degree of casualness. It also left the length of her neck exposed, somehow all the more inviting for being half hidden, half revealed, than when she wore her hair up entirely — Stop this, Twilight — Her coat was already on so he didn’t know what she wore beneath, except for the trousers out from the bottom of her coat. He always liked her in trousers.

What I like doesn’t matter at all.

He moved to the door to take up his hat and coat. Then hesitated, hand over the key tray. “Will we need to drive anywhere today?”

Yor shook her head. “We’ll walk. The first stop isn't too far. Unless — unless you’d rather drive?”

“Not at all. I was only asking.”

They said their good-byes to Franky and Anya — Anya who continued to be more biddable than previously in the arrangement about their leaving without her — and headed out into the crisp morning.

 

---

 

Their walk was leisurely to such a degree that Twilight found himself becoming impatient. No, not impatient. What’s the matter…?

“Ohhh,” Yor cooed, suddenly veering away from him to crouch by the first step of an entryway to a house.

Coming to stand beside her, Twilight saw what made her gush.

A cat.

It was…

Just a cat.

Admittedly a cat who was luxuriating under Yor’s fingers, purring and rolling, as Yor scritched the cat’s chin, that spot they liked by their tail, stroked her knuckles over his chest.

It remained, nonetheless, just a cat.

Still, when Yor looked up at him and beckoned him to crouch beside her, Twilight complied.

“Have you ever watched cats?” Yor asked, smiling softly as the cat pressed into her hand as she rubbed his ears.

“Watched cats?” Yes, insofar as he had observed a lot of people, creatures and things, but probably best just to say, “Not really.”

“Mmm.” Yor glanced at him — for some reason, her cheeks went a little pink. Does she realise how charming she is? She said, “I think you could do with watching cats.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Well…” Yor looked down again. The cat plopped down, stretching his front paws to kneed the air before luxuriating against the step. He gave a soft, imperious mew to Yor when she paused, and she laughed, stroking down his back as he purred and purred and purred. “I’ve never seen anyone relax like a cat relaxes,” Yor said quietly. “They really…”

He’d thought the word several times now, hadn’t he? “Luxuriate?” Twilight suggested.

“Oooh yes, that’s perfect, Loid!” Yor indulged, with one hand she scratched the cat’s cheeks, with the other, she continued gentle strokes down his back, his sides. “Not only like this,” she nodded her chin, “But also when they rest. Stretching out, or curling up, or somehow doing both at once,” she laughed. “They find sunbeams or a cosy spot by the fire. Or sun-warmed concrete…” This cat did seem to take particular pleasure in pressing himself into the concrete. “When they rest, it’s like that’s their only priority. They’re going to do it to the utmost! And look at them, it’s incredible.” Twilight thought this particular cat was showing some poor judgement, as he squirmed out from under Yor's touch and skipped up a couple of steps out of reach where he began cleaning himself. “Hehe, sometimes I wish I could luxuriate just like a cat.”

Of course his mind flooded with images of Yor stretching and squirming in bed like a cat — the full, curving lines of her body teasing beneath loose pyjamas, strong muscles reaching in her arms, shivering all down her back, the flex of her legs down to her feet and her toes. Her hair might fall around her face, spread around her against the mattress as she, yes, luxuriated — it was one of the most enticing, relaxing, sexiest things he had ever imagined and a hole like wanting opened up in his chest and spread to low in his abdomen. His mind even provided a sunbeam. This is ridiculous, he told himself, and it was ridiculous but it was proving difficult to stop himself. He was so exhausted, his mind had started fogging with it sometimes when he was alone late in the night. Imagining Yor taking the time to indulge in proper, bone-deep relaxation, sinking into a comfortable bed with lush covers, her muscles stretching before settling into a long sleep…

He had to physically stop himself from shaking his head to clear it of those images. As it was, his hand was fisted tight, hidden from Yor by his side.

“I’m glad we got Bond,” Yor was saying and Twilight struggled to grasp the non sequitur as she continued, “Anya loves him and our family wouldn’t be complete without him,” something cracked in his chest and Twilight pressed his lips together, “But sometimes I wish we had a cat, too.” Yor’s eyes slid to his face, sweet with a twinkling teasing and that hole in his chest yawned. “I think a cat would be good for you. Teach you a thing or two about rest.”

Twilight swallowed thickly. “You’re probably right,” he managed.

“Mm! Teehee! Well, we’ll see what we can do about that today,” she said brightly, lifting smoothly to her feet.

Twilight followed after a moment, watching the cat wash his paws.

“Ready Loid?” Yor asked cheerfully.

“After you,” he replied, wondering what she meant.

They were less than twenty minutes into this date and he was very much in trouble.

 

---

 

It turned out the nearby location was the park with its city view where Yor explained shyly that she thought he could do with a leisurely stroll and…

The truth was, she was right. It made his brain itch, though, that twice she had not only discerned his recent state but felt it necessary to comment on it. Was he slipping that much…? It was true that since he had come to terms with the situation between them, he had let certain things slide. Focusing on the mission was one thing, but Yor was no threat, and she had indicated both that she wanted their agreement to continue and that she wanted more responsibilities in the home. It would be foolish not to allow a degree of partnership between them under those circumstances.

Still. After her comment months ago about that wrinkle in his brow, he had done what he could to obscure his personal state.

Was she just that observant?

Something to contemplate later, he decided as Yor looked at him quizzically. He had missed something then, as he considered. Playing back what she said, he responded brightly, “You’re right, the new path is very pleasant. The city had the right idea by introducing it, even if I had my doubts.”

She looked a little unconvinced, even more bemused, but she didn’t comment, only pointing out a new ice cream vendor they should bring Anya to next time they were here all together.

 

---

 

She had booked them into a new restaurant, continuing on an unspoken inclination to avoid the restaurant where Yor had gained a one-off fixation on cocktails.

“It’s a new restaurant,” she told him unnecessarily, then leaned forward and waved to someone. Twilight followed her gaze and —

“Anya?”

“And Franky,” Yor said, glancing up at him, smiling with humour. “I thought she was less likely to try to follow us again, if I included her.”

Anya seemed to have become bored with that game, at least going both by Franky’s report and Twilight’s own observations, but he couldn’t fault Yor for her caution– or her solution. “I see,” he said, conjuring one of Loid's smiles again. “Good idea.”

“And,” she beckoned him to lean down so she could lower her voice, her eyes warm over yet another inexplicable blush, “I know you like spending time with her on weekends, especially when she’s already done her homework.”

That jolted him — I do? — it resonated like truth in the centre of his mind but he’d never —

“I made sure she got it done last night,” Yor added, laughter and conspiracy beneath her voice, and looking up at him with her chin tucked down almost shyly, from under her eyelashes. His mouth went dry. She was so —

“Papa!” Anya pointed to the seat beside her. “Papa sit here and share Anya’s lunch.”

As Twilight resigned himself to some peanut-filled creation without being able to determine to his own tastes the quality of the restaurant overall, Yor’s eyes sparkled at him over the hand she raised to her lips. She leaned over when Franky asked Anya something about the menu and whispered, “I can share some of mine too, if you like.” She laughed. “You’ll be stuck with my choice but I think my taste has improved a bit since, um, well, since I started eating your cooking, Loid.”

She blushed, his heart softened, and he demurred — her taste had always been fine (it was her cooking that was the issue) — but perhaps the meal itself would be more pleasant than the promise of whatever peanut concoction the restaurant offered. Beside him, inexplicably, Anya startled and made her shocked noise, pointing even more inexplicably at Franky, who startled in turn, when Yor asked her what was wrong.

 

---

 

Her face tipped up, looking up at the trees, Yor said, “I’ve heard there’s a botanical garden in Westalis that's more than a hundred years old,” dropping her voice on Westalis the way most in Berlint did, a reflex borne from cultivated fear by the SSS. They walked now through the Tropics Greenhouse of Berlint’s recently opened botanical gardens, specifically the coconut tree section. Trees stretched high above them, only by craning his neck could he see their tops, their long leaves, reminiscent of feathers. The air lush with a scent Twilight could only describe as green. Anya had been happy to part ways with them without complaint after lunch, though Franky took the opportunity for one final hissed grouse. Yor had been right: it had been nice to see Anya. And to Twilight’s pleasant surprise, the peanut chicken dish had actually been quite good; Yor’s mince-stuffed-aubergines in the style of the Grekians had been even better. Following just behind her, Twilight idly studied the fall of her ponytail over her shoulder and the poised line of her back as Yor went on thoughtfully, “I’m sure this doesn’t compare, but it’s nice to have it in the city, isn’t it?”

“Mm,” Twilight agreed. “I’ve been to the botanical garden in Westalis actually.” When Yor turned to him in surprise, he passed a hand over the back of his neck. Stupid mistake, Twilight. “Medical conference. An attempt to bridge the divide.” In reality, one of his first infiltration missions during an official Ostania state visit.

“Oh, that’s so nice,” Yor said earnestly. Then she bit her lip — I wish she wouldn’t do that — and asked, “How… how does this compare?”

Nervousness touched her, tugged her chin down, shadowed her eyes towards downcast. What would happen, if I tipped her chin —

I would get kicked or punched is what would happen.

“The company is better,” he found himself telling her instead. “Here, today.”

What are you doing — !

“Oh,” Yor said, lifting her face again, a slight furrow to her brow. Twilight’s stomach dropped — see, you already knew — “I’m sorry your colleagues were such poor company that they ruined your visit!”

Twilight stared. He had given her such an obvious line, how had she —

She was looking at him so intently, so plainly annoyed with his fictitious colleagues for their fictitious failures on his fictitious behalf and —

Twilight breathed out a smile. Better this way, Twilight.

“Thank you, Yor. I appreciate you making up for their lack.” Then he made himself look around attentively for the first time. Breathing in the cultivated humid air and that lush green scent again, he said more truthfully, “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?”

“I think so, too,” Yor said after a breath, “It’s kind of like we’ve left Berlint, isn’t it?” He turned to find her watching him, smiling faintly in a way that tightened his stomach. Her eyes dropped as though to his mouth — What is she looking at? She swayed a little on her feet, drawing closer to him — his stomach flipped, his mouth dried — and she swayed away again, taking a step onwards, coincidentally also putting more space between them. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” he said, agreeably, suppressing an irrational wash of disappointment. “Lead the way.”

 

---

 

The issue was, he laughed with Yor. He wasn’t entirely certain when he’d realised it. He recollected, of course, laughing with her on that first night, after she had sent one of their assailants flying across the alleyway with a single kick. But he’d considered that an anomaly, a lucky one, at the time: it saved him some trouble in the moment. An anomaly nonetheless. Certainly early on in their arrangement, there had been nothing else similar, and whatever laughter shared had been mostly that of his role, typically to build camaraderie, shared humour being one of the oldest tricks in the book.

But at some point when they’d been on a date to maintain cover. It had been a cold day, an early frost and ice of the season. They had witnessed the closest thing to a live slapstick routine involving a teenager, a patch of ice and a garbage can. Once it had become clear that the teen had hurt nothing but his ego, Yor had tittered. At the sound, Twilight snorted. Then Yor had slid a glance at him from the corner of their eyes, and all at once, he was laughing, and so was she.

And ever since then, laughter had not been uncommon between them. Not only from slapstick, but the most assured way to get Yor laughing…

“Sharon at work was telling me about a film from Follywood, a musical, called ‘singing in a thingy,’” she was telling him presently. “Her cousin over there wrote her a letter about it! And apparently there’s a scene where one of the performers, he can run up walls and flip over backwards,” animatedly demonstrating this by walking her fingers up an imaginary wall in the air, the flip accomplished with a twist of her wrist. Twilight smiled. “Pretty easy,” Yor said as though this were something everyone could do. “In the film, he has a performance where all sorts of silly things happen but Sharon forgot most of them, except for the end,” laughter started to sneak into her voice, and phenomenally, Twilight felt each snicker in his own chest as she chortled her way through, “When he — huhu — he starts to — hu — run up the last — hee! — wall except — hehehe — it isn’t solid! — ha! — And-and-and he flies right through!”

Twilight was fairly certain she was missing a few steps — the person was running up ‘the last wall,’ so there had been others? And he could only half imagine it — the wall wasn’t solid, so how could he start to run up it? But it didn’t matter. Her laughter was infectious.

It was a figment of his imagination that Yor shone as he watched her laugh, pink cheeks and joyful lines at the corners of her closed eyes, her long fingers raised and failing to entirely cover her mouth. Twilight drew them to a stop so they could each catch their breath, and when Yor finally said, still breathless, “It sounds like so much fun, doesn’t it? I wish we could see it!” he agreed, making mental note to ask Franky to procure a copy of the film. With the ban on foreign media, he’d figure out later how to explain to Yor how he got it.

 

---

 

Anya was in bed when they returned, and Franky was more amenable than normal when they relieved him. Twilight suspected it had something to do with Yor’s sunnier-than-usual smiles.

She had slipped away after Franky left with something about getting changed. For his part, he had the paperwork Handler had assigned him, and while he craved coffee, he was going to make do with tea to keep him company through the night.

“Ooooh, Loid, caffeinated?” Yor appeared beside him without warning. It took more control than he liked to suppress his startled reaction; he was more tired than he realised for her to surprise him that way. She was quick, withdrawing the box of caffeine-free tisane and holding it out with a hopeful expression. “It’s just, I had one more thing for you actually?” she said, a little fidgety, “I had hoped you might… Might sleep, tonight?”

Hesitating, Twilight took the kettle off the hob as it started to whistle. What does she mean, might sleep…? “I’m not sure I understand,” he opted for.

“Well… I see the light on, under your door, sometimes when I go to the toilet in the night,” Yor said apologetically. “It isn’t any of my business, I know! And I — I’m not trying to pry, I promise! But. Well.” She gave him a worried look, and then disappeared from the kitchen long enough for Twilight to start to step after her, only for her to return with her arms behind her back. “I had one more… I tried to plan today so that it might be… relaxing? For you?”

Twilight’s entire body stilled. Obviously Yor had said she wanted to take him on a date. He had thought that was just because he had taken her on dates. Yor often liked reciprocating: it was why he had allowed the fostering of their status quo, such as it was. It had been shaken up months ago, when Yor had asked about the future for their arrangement, only for that to settle again without explanation. He had tried to be vigilant since then, and nothing had given him pause about Yor’s initial invitation. But this indicated ulterior motives…?

“I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped,” she said awkwardly into the silence. “I didn’t mean —”

“You didn’t overstep,” he interrupted, saying what was necessary to smooth over things between them even as he sought back through their recent interactions for what might have prompted her. Surely it wasn’t just the light on in his room from time-to-time? There was no way to avoid that. Despite what certain rumours may say about him, he couldn’t actually see in the dark. He certainly couldn’t read intelligence reports without light.

Perhaps there was a way to stop that light seepage?

“Well,” Yor was saying. “If you’re sure… then, then I have one more thing for you.”

Another?!

She brought her arms around, presenting to him what she had been hiding behind her back. It was a small basket, wrapped in cellophane. Inside the basket appeared to be a series of small bottles and jars with pale purple labels.

“Do you remember I went on that shopping trip with Melinda a little while ago?” she asked shyly, and Twilight nodded uncomprehendingly. “Well. We went to this nice little, um, what did Melinda call it…” She shrugged, “ Anyway, inside they had a bunch of different baskets like this.” She extended it and Twilight did his best to cover how gingerly he accepted it. It could only weigh a kilo or two but his mind played a trick, making it seem weightier by far in his hold. Softly, Yor said, “This one is meant to help with relaxation. The shop lady said it should help you unwind. And then it should help you sleep. It’s lavender scented,” she indicated the contents of the basket as though he weren’t already staring at it. “It’s — she, she said it would help you.”

For Loid, if he had been real, the day would have been pleasant. He’d be touched, that this woman who had become a friend to him, who had willingly and without ulterior expectations stepped into the role of a co-parent for his daughter who had lost her mother, had organised such a thoughtful day for him. Perfectly polite, wannabe-genteel, generally decent, tediously mild Loid may not have necessarily felt he had earned it but would nonetheless accept it for what it was: a gesture of friendship, and care.

For he, himself…

Twilight looked up from the gift. Yor looked back at him.

When she looked at him like this, hope in her warm, expressive eyes, worry in the marginal downturn of her lips, in this instance having given him a gift she had taken time to seek out and choose, going so far as to ask for advice from strangers which he knew she sometimes shied from…

A gift that was realistically, though she would never know it, more for him than for Loid… 

No. It’s not as though something might happen between us.

Only through long practice and hard won experience, did Twilight muster a reassuring smile. “I’m sure it will,” he answered, imbuing his voice with sincerity. “This is very thoughtful of you, Yor. I appreciate it. And,” he added when she opened her mouth, question clear in her eyes, “I’ll take a bath using these, and do my best to sleep right after it tonight.” It would set him back, but he couldn’t risk Yor spotting light under his door, not tonight. If she did, she may feel hurt, or worse, and that could affect their family. And it could affect the mission.

Her eyes were bright above the deep blush high on her cheeks. “I’m so happy to hear you say that,” Yor hushed, and for no reason Twilight could determine, his heart turned over. Her worry melted away as her smile grew, and she said softly, “You do so much for me, Loid… I know you’ve tried to let me help more these last months since I asked, but that you struggle with that, just a little.” His heart seemed to have risen to beat in his throat. “So I thought maybe I could help you with that too. Insist, just a little.” He didn’t understand her expression, or her tone; wistful, almost. It made him want to step closer to her, to reassure her, but he couldn’t name why, and, frustrated, that made taking action perilous. “You’re so kind to me and to everyone and I wish… I wish you would also be that kind to yourself.” What —

Swallowing audibly, she straightened, clasping her hands and locking her elbows, shoulders rigid, overloud, she said, “Enjoy your bath, Loid!” And gave him a fleeting bow before turning on her toes and vanishing.

Twilight looked down again, at the basket filled with lavender scented things. Bubble bath, he saw now, soap, lotion, even a candle. To help him relax, to help him unwind, to help him sleep, she had said.

I wish you would also be that kind to yourself.

Yes. Loid would be touched.

He himself, on the other hand… he had thought conceding to himself about his feelings for Yor would be enough to curtail their impact on his decision-making. But it seemed that being in love… or… loving… Yor… Was more impacting than he’d initially quantified.

In his mind’s eye he saw her, asking him to rest, and waiting for his answer as though it were important. He remembered the vision he’d had, of Yor mimicking a cat. And he saw himself there beside her.

His heart throbbed. Tension coiled low in his abdomen.

Loid would be touched. He may even have a good night’s sleep. Twilight, on the other hand, was going to be up all night, reevaluating. In the dark. Because she might otherwise see the light.

Notes:

So off the back of their very first date way back when, where Yor kicks some dude across an alley and Twilight's reaction (after surprise) is to laugh, and then Yor joins in, I have a soft spot for the idea that they both have a soft spot for slapstick. The very first time I watched Singin' in the Rain, I watched with a friend who loved slapstick and they were guffawing and wheezing all through Donald O’Connor’s performance of Make ‘Em Laugh (it was also the first time I'd actually heard a laugh that qualified as a guffaw, so double delight!) while not hugely into slapstick myself, I've borrowed from that experience in this chapter. If you haven't seen Singin’ in the Rain... ooooh my goodness, 1) run, don't walk, to watch it. It is wONDERFUL, absolute beloved film of mine, and you won't be disappointed (or if you are, pls don't tell me!) And 2) as either introduction or refresher, here is the performance Sharon's cousin wrote to her about, the aforementioned Make ‘Em Laugh, the part Yor describes starts around the 3:37 mark! ☔️💖

 

Thank you for reading ♥🪻 pls accept this hyacinth emoji in lieu of lavender

Chapter 21

Summary:

“Some of the intelligence WISE is handing over to Garden will be of importance to you. I’m telling it to you now.”

Yor stared at him. What possible intelligence could WISE have about her? Besides her profession, Yor didn’t have any secrets. Or at least, she couldn’t think of any that WISE would know or care about?

Notes:

This is another one of my favourite chapters I’ve been so anticipating sharing ❤️‍🩹 I mentioned in the notes of 19 that I originally wrote these scenes a year ago: I've also workshopped specifics on and off in that time! Both with my phenomenal betas, and also with a handful of IRL friends, who I’ll thank in full at the end of the fic. I am immensely grateful to all! More immediately, Countrymint provided initial feedback that enabled me to refine this sequence starting back with Twilight's POV. Briefhottubcoffee went deep into the weeds with me once more on this one, especially taking what happens in this chapter in conjunction with what’s come before and what’s to come. Absolute stars 🌠

 

A few content warnings for this one, I’ve opted to put them in the end notes on this occasion. You can find them by selecting 'more notes’ in the sentence reading “(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)” below ♥

“You’re scaring me,” Yor said.

She had arrived home only a few minutes ago. Twilight told her Anya was at Becky’s for the evening, which was handy because he had an update once she’d settled in and this way they could speak freely. Thinking it some minor update about the next meeting between Garden and WISE, Yor had taken her time. Gotten changed out of her work clothes, into something more comfortable. She’d taken a moment to make herself some tea and pour Twilight a cup of decaf coffee. She had even hummed a little bit when she stirred in the milk. It would be nice, she had thought secretly to herself, to have a few hours alone with Twilight in the afternoon, no matter what they were doing.

He’d looked so grave as she passed him the coffee that she nearly dropped both mugs.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, and gestured her to sit down.

“Is — is Anya —”

“Anya is fine. She is at Becky’s. Safe, a WISE agent is on protective detail until 1900 when a Garden operative takes over. And for extra redundancy, Martha Marriott is former military.”

“O-okay.” Yor hadn't noticed that about Martha — how did Twilight know? Nevermind that now — “Then what–?”

Given the sick twist in her stomach as she sat, perhaps she ought to set down her mug? But the warmth in her palm helped ground her nerves, especially as she watched Twilight's sombre face. He was sitting at the head of the coffee table but somehow he felt very, very far away.

“WISE and Garden have arranged an intelligence exchange: a test of sorts,” he began, neutral tones she hadn’t heard from him in some time. Though there was something maybe a little soft and sorry in his voice too as he continued, “Involving some new intel but much will be what each side already knows. Testing truthfulness, trustworthiness and also the limits of intelligence on each side.”

“I… I see…” She didn’t at all, but would take Twilight at his word.

“Some of the intelligence WISE is handing over to Garden will be of importance to you. I’m telling it to you now.”

Yor stared at him. What possible intelligence could WISE have about her? Besides her profession, Yor didn’t have any secrets. Or at least, she couldn’t think of any that WISE would know or care about?

“Yor, I’m sorry. Yuri works for the State Security Service.”

“Huh?” What a strange thing for Twilight to get wrong. “No, Yuri works for the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. He got a promotion there a few months ago. He won that award just yesterday.”

But Twilight’s expression didn’t change. If anything he only grew more grave, more sympathetic. The twist in her stomach turned cold, spreading ice to her fingers. Her mug was still warm in her left hand, helping a little. Fisting her right hand, “R-right?” she prompted Twilight, fending off of the inexplicable pressure growing on her chest making it harder to breathe. The SSS were — they were — Yor insisted, “Yuri was, was recruited straight from university. W-where he was top of his class. Because he was top of his class. He worked so hard. He told me, he said it was an honour. Prestigious, to work for the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.” She had taken great care to learn the name of the department exactly because he’d been so proud and those things sometimes got muddled in her brain. “He said it was an important job.”

“The Foreign Ministry is often a recruitment pipeline into intelligence and counter-intelligence work,” Twilight said calmly, but also — also implacably, like there was no room to argue, but — but there had to be, because if Twilight was right, then Yuri —

“Because what Yuri said about its importance is true,” Twilight continued, “The brightest minds often go to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. And also often the people who are most patriotic, too. Both of those things have appeal to the SSS.”

Patriotic? Hope burbled up her throat, all a misunderstanding — Yor said, “I, I don’t think… I wouldn’t say Yuri is, is very, p-patriotic…?”

“On patriotism I can’t say,” Twilight conceded, inclining his head. But Yor knew that gesture: that it meant whatever he agreed with changed nothing. Had the living room always been so small? The walls felt very, very close — She wished he would stop talking, but he only went on, measured, “He has other motivations which made him an appealing candidate. Ah, motivations he feels as strongly about as his patriotic colleagues do theirs.”

The walls were so close and her lungs were suddenly far too small. “H-he does?”

Twilight’s expression turned pained, only for a moment, but it was enough for Yor to realise two things:

First, exactly what Twilight was going to say before he said it.

And second, that what he was telling her was true.

No, please — Everything I did was so Yuri would be —

At the same moment Twilight murmured, “You, Yor,” there was a cracking sound —

a splintering sound —

a shattering sound,

a strange sensation in her hand like it went from full to empty as the world turned in on itself.

Vaguely she recognised as Loid — no, Twilight, pulled a first aid kit from somewhere. He was closer to her now, directly in front of her, back curved and head lowered, tending to something between them. Swinging her gaze down: he was using tweezers, there was bloody gauze, and she should pay attention, she should help — who had been hurt?

“You crushed your mug,” she heard him say quietly. “Your hand is cut in several places. I’m removing the ceramic shards.”

How could that be? She didn’t feel it at all. Perhaps he was speaking to someone else.

“No one else is here. Just us, Yor.”

“Yuri,” she whispered. 

The State Security Service were… everyone feared them. They took people. Vanished them. Or, or, or hurt — The SSS were known to be crue—

No no no. She couldn’t think —

Does Yuri do those —

No no no no no.

They… the SSS also hunted traitors. That was. That was something that was. Good?

Dizzy, from the depths of her mind, that- that agent who had touched her, tried to arrest her for Mr Barnes’ haemorrhoids letter. What had he said? About t-t-t-t-t-t-torture — “Take a breath,” Yor heard Twilight say from very far away —

Torture — Could Yuri — ?

No no no no no no no.

And, and Camilla, months and months and months ago, Should we report her for lying?

Would I have been reported to Yuri?

“More than likely Yuri would have been able to step in on your behalf.”

That was reassuring.

Was it?

“You’d have been safe,” Twilight said. “That is reassuring.”

He was responding to her thoughts — like Anya — did telepathy run in the family — ?

“You’re speaking your thoughts out loud, Yor,” he said quietly.

Oh. She supposed… it couldn’t run in the family, not in the usual way; Anya was adopted.

Maybe Yuri would have been better off, in another family. 

Oh. 

No. 

That hurt — that thought hurt. She didn’t want to lose Yuri to another family. She wanted him in this family —

The Forgers couldn’t have an SSS agent as family — this family, with Anya. And she herself, an assassin… Twilight, a, a, a, a spy — an a-a-a-a-actual spy, like the SSS hunt —

Was Twilight hunted?

She couldn’t see Twilight’s eyes, his head tipped down watching his work — her hand stung.

“Sorry, that’s the antiseptic. And then there will be stitches.”

But where are his eyes?

She watched as his shoulders rose and fell heavily. Then he tipped his head up, and met her eyes.

Oh.

What’s wrong?

He looks so unhappy.

Is that real?

He — he never liked Yuri — he hated Yuri —

“That isn’t true.” Twilight’s eyes held hers soberly. “Yuri is a danger to me and my mission. Doubly so because he doesn’t like me and will take any opportunity to arrest me. Or worse. However.”

Yuri? Arrest Loid? Twilight? Yuri? Do worse? Because the SSS could not be trusted to do actual justice.

Yor hung by a thread to that however.

The Shopkeeper said Garden working with the SSS, leaves rather a rotten taste in the mouth, doesn’t it, Thorn Princess? Then he tutted. A necessary evil for now.

Yuri was SSS. Yuri was necessarily evil?

No no no no no no no no no no no no no

However —
     however —
          however —
               however —

“However. Yuri loves you.” Yuri loves me. “And that won my respect. It redeems him, his love for you.”

She couldn’t see. Everything was blurred, a pale gauze over her eyes— why can’t I see Twilight any more? — “You’re crying, Yor,” Twilight answered, simply, and desperately kind.

Is it possible to stop?

A sharp pain, a tug of skin. Stitches, she thought vaguely.

She still couldn’t see.

 

---

 

Yor was empty. She couldn’t think. Her eyes burned. Her hand throbbed.

The sun had gone down. The living room was warm with lamp light, and the comfort Yor usually drew from that was far away. The couch was usually soft and cosy to lie on. One of her favourite spots. She may as well have been lying on concrete. She pushed a cushion to the floor, wrapped her arm under her head instead. Her arm also felt wrong.

She sniffed. A tissue box slid into view on the coffee table. Twilight’s hand withdrew. He must be in his seat at the top of the coffee table again. Yor couldn’t bring herself to look.

“I phoned the Blackbells,” Twilight told her quietly from somewhere over her head. She dimly remembered hearing him speaking to someone at some point. “I told them we’d had a minor kitchen accident which required a trip to the emergency room for stitches. Anya will spend the night there.”

“You’re such a good liar,” Yor said thickly. She never would have thought of that excuse, and Anya ought to have occurred to her before. She was a terrible mother. Failed — “Yuri,” she said, her throat raw.

Twilight misunderstood her, saying evenly, “It’s natural not to believe me. I’ve brought evidence, if you want to verify for yourself.”

Evidence? The information packets she received for clients was usually descriptive of their despicable acts, the reason she was being sent for them, but evidence was something else. … What might he have? Photos? Documents that showed —

“No,” she moaned, bile burning her throat, ears popping. “How could Yuri…”

She wasn’t sure what the end of that question was. There were too many.

But Twilight. He breathed out slowly. “It’s a common tactic of the SSS,” he started, as though he knew what she was asking. As though he had an answer that might make any sense at all. “They like to recruit young,” he went on, tones matter-of-fact, but still with some kindness. “Typically they recruit to their informant network first, as young as fourteen.” Fourteen. Yuri…? “As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, Yuri was recruited less than two years ago.” That was a relief. I think? At fourteen, he’d have been at university, and if she had missed that — but no, not even two years. It had happened after- after he’d left home. “His intelligence and… dedication meant they brought him into the SSS intelligence apparatus directly, rather than initially as an informant.”

“Dedication…?” Yor murmured, sick to her stomach. Twilight had said, hadn’t he? It was something of a blur, she thought, staring at the tissue box and passing her thumb over the wrapping on her hand gripping her thigh. But he had said something about motivation, she was fairly certain. Because Yuri wasn’t patriotic enough?

Twilight’s hesitation was too loud. What could he possibly have to —

“It is well known among Yuri’s colleagues, that he works for them because he wants to make a better world for you.”

“Oh.” She could hardly hear her own voice. Pressure built in her temples, around her eyes, the top and back of her head like a band constricting, more and more and more.

“They recruit young,” Twilight went on after a pause, his voice remained informative, remained kind. “Because it’s easier to indoctrinate inexperienced, impassioned people to the SSS ideology. And for redundancy in case of failing complete indoctrination, the SSS starts collecting intel immediately which can be leveraged later for loyalty as needed. They’re very good at the process.”

“They’re blackmailing Yuri…?”

That was the first glimmer of — of something beyond… This. She felt as though she were cornered in a fight, which wasn’t unknown to her, but normally she knew her opponents, could see, hear, feel, trust her instincts and her intuition, knew what resources she had and how to use them. But all her senses had gone fuzzy, and the only resource she had was her mind. She didn’t understand what cornered her, or how to fight it, or where to turn, or what to do at all. She felt out of her depth, and if her mind was her only weapon here, then she might as well have slime in her hands to fight with. 

But blackmailers? A flare of anger, familiar, warming her belly. That brought a bit of light —

“No,” Twilight responded, nearly apologetic. As though doused by water, the flare of anger extinguished in a puff of smoke. “They promised him the strength and resources needed to accomplish his goals.”

Head spinning even lying down, Yor whispered with heavy tongue, “To make a better world… for me.”

Yuri would want strength and resources: what had driven his academics if not a desire for knowledge that would give him power? The power to change things, he had always said, For you, sis! And she had always smiled and said, Thank you, Yuri! And thought it was sweet. Sort of like the other side of what she did. Like she had told Twilight: He helps people in the light of day, and I protect them in the dark of night. Then she hadn’t thought much more about it. Wanting to make things better was something she understood.

But through the SSS…? Yuri hadn’t, hadn’t known the same things she did. The whole reason she had started working for Garden was so that he would never have to know the same things she —

And he was never supposed to cause —

But he, he had been out in the, in the world, hadn’t he? He would have — heard what normal people heard — known the rumours and. Those things were bad enough. Weren’t they?

“I never… I never thought Yuri’s… attachment to me could… could… harm anyone. How can someone’s love be used so… so…” 

Another short pause before Twilight answered, “The SSS will use anything. But the weakness they exploited was Yuri’s naiveté, not his love for you.”

Naiveté. Yes. She was also naive. She’d never have been able to teach him to not be naive. She’d done everything in her power to protect him — keeping him naive hadn’t been her goal, her goal had been to keep him safe and protected from the worst parts of the world.

But.

People who took advantage of someone like that, took advantage of someone being naive… those were the sorts of people Yor dealt with. That anger flared once more.

Yor pulled herself upright. Wiped her hands across her cheeks, then looked at Twilight. He was sitting with an open posture, looking back at her. His expression wasn’t emotionless; she couldn’t have beared that. But nor was he overwrought. He looked… maybe a little sad. And, and sympathetic.

Shaking that off, she tended the flare instead — she could fight with fire — she asked, “How do they control him?”

Twilight took a moment as though ordering his thoughts. “It isn’t control, exactly. They’ll ensure he has at least some sense of autonomy because someone of Yuri’s intelligence and drive would quickly begin to recognise otherwise. He will anyway, eventually. The SSS will work to have him so embedded and have him perform more and more morally reprehensible acts that by the time he realises their manipulation, he will feel as though he’s in too deep to get out.” 

“How?”

“Likely they’ve paired Yuri with an experienced agent who can point his fervency in what they consider the right direction. Many of his targets so far have probably been legitimately committing illegal acts, to reinforce Yuri’s sense of moral superiority and to reinforce his trust in the SSS.” Twilight hesitated, almost imperceptibly, but Yor recognised it. If he was hesitating, what was next? Her hand flat to her stomach didn’t stop it dropping. “They will, at some point, start directing him towards innocent people,” Twilight told her. Her breath left her as though someone punched her. “People the SSS knows aren’t actually acting against Ostania but have been turned in by their neighbours, or have simply crossed the wrong SSS agent. They will begin by telling him trumped-up charges. They may also stage things, setting up and sacrificing poorer performing agents as traitors or disappointments, in order to heighten Yuri’s sense of superiority and deepen his loyalties. If he begins to question, they’ll reveal the harm he already committed against innocent people and coerce him into continuing. They may threaten to reveal to you what he’s done.” Her hand throbbed as she made fists. “Or they may make threats again you, to ensure his cooperation.”

Twilight didn’t react to the outraged noise she made, continuing, “Their ideal outcome is that Yuri doesn’t question anything. They would then slowly drop the trumped-up charges over time until the propaganda becomes ingrained. At that point, Yuri would be brainwashed such that his own perception of detaining or torturing innocent civilians would be that it is the right thing to do.” I won’t let that happen —! “He would come to believe it was a necessary part of the overall project to keep Ostania safe. If people can be arrested at any time for any perceived infraction, turned in by family, friend, neighbour, or an officer across the street, they’ll be frightened. A frightened populace is a docile populace. A docile populace is easier to protect.” How could Yuri ever think — “By protect, they mean control for the good of the state. And of course, citizen goals should align with state goals of security, so innocent civilians should in fact be grateful for the opportunity to serve as examples. If they aren’t grateful, perhaps they aren’t loyal, and if they aren’t loyal, perhaps they aren’t actually so innocent. Or so goes the SSS logic.” Twilight paused. “None of it is true, of course. Setting aside the moral question temporarily, fear is not a sustainable or reliable population control metric taken over time.”

She didn’t care about that part —

No, I do. She was frightened of the SSS herself, after all. And it snagged in her mind, that idea that protecting people meant scaring them, or detaining them, or hurting — killing —

And Yuri might do those —

The thought choked her. She shoved all that aside as forcefully as she could. Wanted only to focus on Yuri.

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

Twilight studied her. Under the full weight of his attention, her impatience stirred. Spread. Slammed through her heel into the floor, tightened her fingers into fighting forms.

She had a target. The SSS were more reprehensible, more cowardly, more disgusting, more, yes, evil than she’d ever realised. And they had Yuri.

If she took down the SSS, Yuri would be free from them and he could —

“One person cannot take down an entire state apparatus, Yor,” Twilight said, blunt.

Yor startled, stared at him as she breathed. He was — unflinching — She glared, doubt starting to pick at her. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. The SSS is WISE’s greatest existential threat in Ostania. They’re the greatest threat to me, personally. If it were possible to take them down with one person, or by one counter agency, WISE would have done so. Or one of the other intelligence agencies operating in Ostania, all of which have a vested interest in shutting the SSS down.” He wasn’t glaring back at her, but there was a tightness around his mouth, new tension in his forehead, and something unrelenting in his eyes. She bristled. An undercurrent to his voice, he went on, “It took WISE and Garden working together to eradicate the organisation that– abducted– Anya, and that was a near thing. That operation was a fraction of the size of the State Security Service.”

That wasn’t —

It couldn’t —

Unbidden in her mind’s eye, she saw the fort Anya had built when they’d played together that first morning at the safehouse. She watched as it collapsed all around her, pillows tumbling and blankets falling away. Felt as that flame in her belly extinguished again, leaving only —

“I can’t do nothing,” she gasped. “Please. They’re — Yuri is, is going to do terrible things and I… I did, I did everything I could and it wasn’t — I didn’t give him what he needed — I never — how can he believe — I, I, I failed him.” Desperation clawed at her heart, up her throat, and Twilight’s eyes were so sorry, looking at her, and no, that couldn’t — they had saved Anya and she would save Yuri and she needed Twilight to understand — “Yuri was, is, Yuri isn’t bad. I promise he isn’t.” But good, bad, weren’t simple, were they? She knew. Twilight knew. But she, she needed Yuri to be simple — “He can be immature, I know, and he gets carried away, but he’s also sweet and creative and he works so hard,” she floundered, remembering who he did that for, “He loves me and I can’t let them make his love into something — I can’t — I love him. I can’t do nothing. I can’t let them have him. I won’t let them. Everything I did — I can’t — They can't have him —”

“I know.” Twilight leaned forward, said again, “I know, Yor,” gently. He drew a deep breath; Yor could hardly breathe, heart pounding at the base of her throat. The tension didn’t leave his face, but his eyes did soften — that sorrow from earlier, and sympathy, and her throat started to burn, her eyes prickling. Twilight said, “Which is why we work to get Yuri out.”

”What?” Cool air filled her mouth, swept down to soothe her throat, her lungs expanded, filling her chest like it was the first breath she had ever taken. Voice cracking, “Th-that’s possible?”

“I can’t promise you,” Twilight warned. “I wish I could. This type of work is delicate, and slow, and dangerous, and it has a high failure rate. But anything you did on your own would be a suicide mission. You would die. And I won’t,” he bit off suddenly as his voice turned hard, the pained expression that flashed across his features confused her. Whatever it was passed swiftly, his eyes clear on the next blink as he went on calmly, as though there had been no disruption, “You dying wouldn’t help Yuri. In fact, the SSS would undoubtedly spin it, using your death to pull him more deeply into the fold.” They think of everything — “But it is possible to get people out. I have colleagues who have accomplished it before, with similar organisations and circumstances.”

Near silence settled. It is possible. She had never thought of hope as painful before, but with each hopeful beat of her heart, it pierced her. What if — what if it failed?

If his plan failed, she could still… Whatever Twilight said about her taking on the SSS, it was still an option, if this… If they failed to get Yuri out. But. There was also… Yuri was her responsibility. And Twilight, he was… Was taking some responsibility for Yuri, too.

“Okay,” she whispered.

She felt very little. And heartsore. But as though somehow her entire body was her heart. Her eyes were tired and dry and also she needed to cry again. And she should ask more questions, but she couldn’t think of a single one. The coffee table looked exactly the same as it always did, staring hard at it didn’t change its particular mild brown, the smoothed edges, and yet it didn’t fit in her mind any longer. And Twilight, Twilight sat in his seat, and he had taken a little responsibility for Yuri, too, as though she wasn’t alone, as though he shared her cares, as though he had found her where she was cornered and joined her there, but there he sat, away, in his seat, his long body and his long arms and his hands that reached across her back when they hugged back at the safehouse and all she wanted was —

The cushion shifted beside her. Twilight sat. Yor looked at him. He seemed so grim. And his arms were held out stiffly, awkwardly. He said haltingly, as he never was, “I thought you might… want…”

This time, her breath drew shuddering into her mouth, caught in her throat, tripped into her lungs.

She ought to say no. Look at him. He clearly didn’t want to do it; she couldn’t grasp why he was offering. Not when he’d already done so much.

But she was so sad. And felt so small. And so weak. And like such a failure. Where did I go wrong? I tried so hard —

Her eyes burned again, her throat scraped across a whimper, and all she wanted was… 

Was for someone to hold her.

No.

What she wanted was for Twilight to hold her.

She had wanted it the other day after they’d first talked about why she made her choices, all for Yuri —

Yuri —

We work to get Yuri out —

We

We work

Gingerly, she leaned into him. S-surely this would be fine. He wouldn’t offer, would he, unless he meant it? And he had said, We work to get Yuri out. And they had done it once before, hadn’t they? With Anya?

But as his arms extended, circled her, reminiscent of taut bands across her back, around her middle, unyielding, her broken heart lurched, started racing — not, not in the fluttery, hopeful way she’d felt– before with him. Alarm, it was true alarm. Her chest rose, fell, disjointed, she was only aware because of the way she felt it jolting, against his chest, his stomach, her breathing cycling faster. And Twilight was an unyielding wall of blazing heat beside her, rigid, as her body reacted to a threat that wasn’t there —

Please, she begged of herself, hands tightening in his sweater. He won’t hurt me. Please, I need —

“Yor?” his voice was so close, this way. It must be her imagination that it rumbled over her skin like a warning?! She sucked in a sharp breath. Twilight said, and she thought she could recognise the alarm under his voice for all she also heard it as a study in calm over the rushing in her ears, “Is this… Are you all ri– should we stop?”

How could he be a threat? When all he was doing was worrying?!

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her hands shook as she wrapped her arms around him. Am I shivering?! Bringing her body closer to his — Is this a mistake?! — it was as though her nerves were detonating like tiny C4 explosives set off by the alarm her heart was thundering out. Over and over and over and blinding — “I’m s-sorry — please d-don’t let go—”

He was so stiff. She was so selfish. But she was carved out. Everything hurt. Why can’t I stop shaking? Why can’t I let go?

It was so painful everywhere inside. Her eyes burned. Why couldn't she let him hug her? “I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I’m so sorry, I, I can do it, I’m trying, I’m sorry —”

“It’s okay, Twilight murmured. “It’s okay, Yor.”

The breath he took shook over Yor’s head and one of his hands lifted from around her waist — No, no, please please don’t let go, I’m trying — only to land so lightly, so softly, on her head.

She stopped.

Everything stopped.

It was only with the protest of her lungs that Yor breathed again, ragged and sharp, her nerves clamouring alarm at her all over again, Please —

Then Twilight’s hand moved. Slowly, gently, enough pressure that his hand didn’t tickle but not so much that her body read an attack. His hand — I know his hands — stroked down over her hair — He holds Anya with these hands, he pats Anya’s precious head with these hands — warm down the back of her neck — he held me once before with these hands — gentle between her shoulder blades — he planted such little seeds with so much care with these hands — to stop just above his other hand — he stitched and wrapped my wounds with these hands — his arm still holding her around her middle.

The calm green of his sweater filled completely her blurred vision — No, that isn’t right, Yor. I can see more than just his sweater… Concentrating, she was aware of the rest of the room beyond him — Twilight drew a breath and his chest moved against her cheek, and he was warm, a normal and comfortable warm, no longer a smothering wall of heat, and the green of his sweater really was calm, and his sweater was soft, thanks to the softener she had purchased for their home, the good quality of Loid’s— of Twilight’s clothes, and when he breathed out, she felt it stir the hair on the top of her head, his chest moving and her with it, and that was…

Twilight’s hand rose again. Landed almost delicately on her head again. Stroked down her back again.

Muscles still tense, but… but her nerves were… they still charged with alarm but the clamour was… less? She could — she could feel her body again. And as Twilight’s hand stroked down, she tracked each centimetre of the motion.

As his hand rose from her back once more, Yor swallowed a soft sound of shock, then longing, when he started speaking. She couldn’t make sense of the words, but his voice was pitched low, tones mellow. Like a normal conversation at dinner time. Or no, better, maybe: that tone of voice he used during their chess games. Warmer tones, a little conspiratorial. She sounded like that too, she had realised. And when she used that tone, it was only for him.

He’s here with me, she thought, with his voice, his hands, his plans, his kindness. We work to get Yuri out —

He’s helping me, she coaxed herself, her grief. I’m not on my own. Twilight is with me.

The thought gentled across some of her nerves, some of the pulsing ache inside became almost tolerable.

Twilight shifted, continuing to speak, easing back, carefully bringing her with him.

Eyes burning all over again, her hands closed compulsively in his sweater but Twilight didn’t admonish her. Instead, the arm around her waist slid in such a way that she was drawn closer to him and that was — it was– better? His other hand was consistent, stroking down her back, rising to start again. Awkwardly, clumsily, she twisted, drew her legs up, curled towards the back of the couch and Twilight — Yor dragged in a deep breath — without breaking his steady strokes, Twilight adjusted smoothly, resettling them together, somehow, mysteriously, fitting his body to hers, and it was– it was better.

The steady thrum of his voice filled her ears. Words started to make sense to her slowly — “— sighting near where I was staying at the time, a large disc in the sky. The magazine photos were just blurry enough that —” — and it was… Was it nonsense? Was Twilight talking to her about fictional things?

It didn’t matter. If he needed her to pay attention he would use a different voice, he would draw her attention somehow. He was giving her his voice, not the words. And his hand continued its rise and fall. His other arm sturdy around her waist.

Yor breathed in slowly, shakily.

As though suddenly she could smell again, that familiar scent of his, citrus and a hint of lavender, filled her nose, and her chest tightened sharply for a beat, then released all at once.

Her heart rate was still a little fast, but now pressing her ear to Twilight’s chest, between the low, full resonance of each word he spoke, she could hear that his heart beat was a little fast, too. So maybe… maybe that was okay. Maybe it was okay to be a little… a little agitated. And a little fragile. She didn’t feel quite so small as before. Her nerves still sparked, but nowhere near as strongly as at first, and less and less often as he kept talking and stroking her hair, her back, his chest firm and supporting her, and also, also a little pliant as he curved around her almost protectively, the regulated rise and fall of his breathing she felt all through her stomach, her breasts, her throat, her cheek…

His sweater bunched in her hands — some part of her mind registered her injured hand throbbing. But it didn’t impress, stacked against all the rest. Yor turned her face, her forehead, her nose, into Twilight’s shoulder, and took a deep breath — citrus. lavender. … and something else she hadn’t noticed before, a pleasant musk. Whatever it was, she had never smelled anything as comforting in all her life.

Letting herself go as heavy as best she could, “Twilight,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

The flow of his speech faltered, but he didn’t stop. She closed her eyes.

Notes:

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accidental self-inflicted injury requiring stitches (not gone into detail); a section wherein a character experiences a brief disconnect from reality; discussion of indoctrination and policing under incipient authoritarianism; an intense anxiety response to touch which is soothed

 
 

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