Chapter Text
Twilight is used to unfamiliarity.
He must be able to adapt to any situation; to become anyone, to create someone from nothing. The name and face of a person that never existed. He can switch between personas faster than any magician with a trick. One blink, two, and he’ll vanish into thin air.
Waking up in the hospital is nothing new. Twilight feels the sheets before he opens his eyes, the thin hospital gown, and the pressure of an IV in his arm. He keeps his breathing steady and deep, feigning sleep while he takes in the rest of his surroundings. A heart monitor beeps quietly.
It seems routine, but Twilight fights to keep his composure. Something is off.
The hospital room smells like flowers. He knows a few by name, but there’s enough variety and number that he can’t name what flowers fill vases by his bedside. Handler would never do something so obvious.
The other thing that’s wrong—his instincts are screaming—is that there’s someone else in the room with him. Not a doctor or nurse, not one of WISE, but someone he doesn’t recognize . Asleep, by the sound of their breathing and the lack of movement, and right next to him.
Twilight opens his eyes, and without moving a muscle, looks over.
That can’t be comfortable , is the first thing he thinks when he sees her. She definitely isn’t anyone he knows. Rumpled, long dark hair sticks out in a few directions. Her eyes are shut, her mouth parted slightly. She’s pretty, but her face is tired even at rest. And she’s completely asleep, one hand cradled close to her, but—
The other hand is outstretched, closing the distance between chair and bed. Twilight follows the line of it until he reaches the end of her fingers resting over his, just barely interlaced, like she’d fallen asleep holding his hand.
That, more than anything in the room, scares him.
With a gentleness Twilight isn’t sure of, he untangles her fingers from his and shakes out his stiff hand.
Twilight sits up, inspecting the room for anything that will tell him what happened. Flowers spill from vases crowded on the table to his left, with little cards and notes sticking out. He reaches over, plucking one.
Get well soon, Dr. Forger!
So his cover is some kind of medical professional, maybe. Most of the other notes say the same name. Forger. There’s even a little stuffed animal peeking out from a bouquet of carnations, one of a lion with a pointy mane.
He has to get out of here and make contact with someone. Handler, preferably, but any WISE agent will do.
But the woman…
She’s probably just another woman who’s had the misfortune of being charmed by Twilight. Another necessary sacrifice that will end in heartbreak. A daughter of a politician? A wife of the mark? Or is she, herself, a lone agent on the other side, biding her time to stab him in the back?
His gaze drifts back to her again. She’s slumped in the chair, slightly towards the bed.
He needs to get to a phone. He needs to—
The pain hits when he moves, a deep, dull throb in his head. He reaches up reflexively and finds a bandage there. Twilight takes a quick scan of himself. Besides his head, which pulses now that he’s aware of it, there’s nothing else. It must be the cause of his confusion.
He moves slower, gingerly setting his feet on the ground. Shaky, but he’s been worse. Twilight undoes everything then pads to the nearby small closet to find his clothes and belongings. More clues.
His clothes are normal—middle-to-upper class working man—but nice, tailored. A plain shirt, and matching suit pieces in a dark olive. They look clean. He changes into just the shirt and trousers in the small washroom, folding the hospital gown neatly. Then he goes to the sink to wash his face, and takes a step back when he sees himself in the mirror.
This is…
Twilight reaches up and touches his face. Runs his fingers through his hair. Blond, the same color as his mother’s. His eyes, the shape of his nose—this face is the closest he ever is to real . The real Twilight, the grown-up boy who played Admiral. His heartbeat comes, faster, chasing his frantic thoughts.
He flicks through the filing cabinets of his memories, running through every mission, every identity. There’s an empty space where the most recent file should be. Twilight shuts his eyes, trying to think, and a headache forms at the back of his head.
He doesn’t remember.
Fine.
He storms back out. With his things are a few accessories; a watch, some gloves, but nothing he really needs—no supplies to change his look. No matter. He’ll pick them up on the way. A hat from a gentleman, to hide his hair; glasses plucked from a case; a big coat to change his silhouette.
He doesn’t need his suit jacket. He folds it again, contemplating, then goes around his bed. Twilight makes quick work of rolling it into a tight bundle. Then he gently lifts the woman’s head, tucking the makeshift pillow behind her neck.
No need for a goodbye. Soon there will be next to no records that he was here at all. A voluntary discharge will be the end of any paperwork.
This is just another face, Twilight thinks. It’s alright. She will never see him again this way, if she ever sees him again at all.
As he pulls his hand away, she stirs. It’s too late. Dark red eyes blink awake, confused, and then widen completely when she meets his gaze.
“...Loid?” She flails, catching herself. His jacket falls, forgotten. “You’re awake. You’re—I was so worried… Why are you up? Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, and tucks the name Loid Forger into his mental files. Plans A and B are out. Twenty-seven others take their place.
She hesitates, hands fluttering like she’s not sure whether to touch him or not. Twilight—Loid now—doesn’t draw away when she stands and approaches, taking his hands.
“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard,” she says gently, smiling. Her hands are rough in places, but warm. She has no ring. “You can rely on me, you know. Do you remember what happened…?”
Which choice should he make? A clean cut, a messy escape? A truth? A lie?
“I’m… afraid I—” His tongue feels thick. “I don’t know who you are. I’m sorry.”
It’s the wrong choice.
Her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes well slightly with tears. She takes a second, clearly trying to recompose herself, and Twilight averts his eyes. He feels like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t, a display of emotion that is wasted on him.
“Oh…”
Her hands re-enter his field of vision, dropping to her lap and twisting together in a fit of nerves. She sniffles once.
His throat tightens. Twilight opens his mouth—
“I’m so sorry!” she blurts, and shoots to her feet. “Oh, no, you must be so confused… I was being so familiar with you. I’ll- I’ll get a doctor!”
He reaches for her before his mind can catch up, but she ducks her head and disappears out the door, quick as a flash. Before she rounds the corner, he sees her arm rise, close to her face.
Twilight’s hand is still mid-air. He stares at it and lets it drop.
A shudder runs up his spine, even if no one looking at him would be able to tell. The way he reacts to her, like she’s important—
It must be a mission. There is nothing else that would make Twilight react so strongly, even with his memories buried behind a haze.
Twilight sits back on the edge of his bed and leans back. “Hah…”
What a pain.
He could slip out now, of course, but now that she and a doctor will be coming back, he can’t disappear. Why did he go to her? He should have just left. Twilight narrows his eyes at the flowers, thinking, sifting through plans.
He’ll get a discharge, make contact with WISE, and then… then he’ll go.
How convenient it is, Twilight thinks. It’ll be easier to abandon Loid Forger this way. Some marks cling to his personas, looking for ghosts that no longer exist—if ‘Loid’ has lost his memory, he can walk away with less trouble.
Twilight relaxes when the doctor walks in.
It is, of course, Handler, tailed closely by Nightfall. Oh, so she wanted to wear a doctor's uniform today. She usually thinks being a nurse is cuter.
“Um…” The woman who'd been with him fidgets. Her eyes are just a bit red. “He- he said he doesn't remember me?”
Her voice gets smaller and smaller as she speaks until ‘me’ is barely more than a whisper. Handler smiles reassuringly at her, though the corners of her eyes are pinched.
“Wait—should I… leave?”
Three pairs of eyes flick to Twilight. Handler doesn't make any move to say that she shouldn't stay, so.
“You can stay. It's fine.”
“Right. Well, yes, we thought something like this was possible, but please don't worry. How are you feeling, Dr. Forger? Dizziness and pain?”
There's no code; she's speaking plainly right now.
“Ah… my head hurts.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
Twilight glances towards the window and blinks hard. Outside small green buds are sprouting on the branches. The last day he remembers is—
Is…
It was fall, he thinks. Does she know how much he forgot? Should he say?
He rattles it off. Handler frowns.
“Your name and birthday?”
Is this a trick question? Not his real name and birthday—she would never in front of a civilian. Not even in private. And not in front of Nightfall. It is a secret only a very select few remember; the others who would know are dead.
“...Loid. Forger.” There must have been a report, some details. A basic element of a cover identity is a birthday. “October thirteenth.”
Handler hums. She meets his gaze, and her eyes sharpen. Like the other questions were fluff; this is something she is asking him.
“And who is the current chairman of the National Unity Party?”
Do you remember?
Something sticks in his mind. Of course he knows, but it's not just knowledge. He tries grasping it. A hollow set of eyes.
“Donovan Desmond.”
“So—I'm sorry—Doctor…”
Handler turns to the woman, reaching out to pat her hand kindly. “Nurse Fiona here will make sure he's alright. Unfortunately, it seems your husband—”
Twilight chokes. Husband?
“Oh, dear.”
He's married ? Twilight meets Nightfall's cold gaze and squints a little, shaking his head in an attempt at nonverbal communication.
I have a wife? What the h—
Nightfall's mouth tightens. For a mission. You don't remember?
He gives her an unimpressed stare.
“—has a case of retrograde amnesia. It seems he may have forgotten the past year to year-and-a-half…”
“I see…”
Twilight makes a face at Handler's back, trying to stare his questions into her.
A year-long mission? With marriage? What kind of idiotic—
Nightfall approaches with tools. He holds still as she brings a stethoscope to his chest, her hand brushing lightly over him. His heart is beating too fast, he knows, so he breathes slowly.
When he’s paying attention, she quirks an eyebrow at him, although she looks annoyed. You have a child.
Twilight sputters.
“...He suffered quite the blow in that car accident,” Handler says gravely. “Fortunately, at least based on our previous check with him, there are likely no other complications. He's quite hardy!”
So now everyone will think Loid Forger is a bad driver, he thinks dryly.
“But if he doesn't remember—”
“He should, with time,” Handler says, voice in a rare show of gentleness. “Of course, what happens next is up to you. We do recommend, Dr. Forger, that you take some time off of work and rest at home. You shouldn’t try to force yourself to remember. Now, why don’t we get you your paperwork?”
Being discharged passes in a confusing blur. He gets scheduled for another visit, and alongside that, a time and location to meet with W.I.S.E. Handler gives him one long, poignant look before turning away, like she expects something from him; but Twilight doesn’t understand exactly what.
He’s left alone with his wife. Twilight is still turning the idea over in his mind. A wife. A wife and child . Like a proper family.
“Um,” Twilight says, and winces despite himself. How eloquent.
They look at each other.
She must be hurt. An entire year… Twilight doesn’t remember. He should be more alarmed than he is, but it rather feels more like skipping a blank page in a book, picking right up where he left off while the story stumbles. He has nothing to be particularly upset over. A temporary, if troubling, setback in his mission.
But to her, a civilian, to have someone who she thought loved her, a person she married, a father; it’s almost unimaginable.
“Oh,” she says, completely embarrassed and breaking the silence. “I—I’m Yor.”
Twilight waits for the memory, for her name to bring anything to the surface, but nothing happens. He nods.
“Yor,” he repeats, shaping his mouth around her name. “I’m very sorry about… about the circumstances. But, ah, it’s nice to meet you. Again. Please bear with me for a little while.”
The smile she gives him is sweet, if a little sad.
“I promised when I married you,” Yor tells him. “I’ll bear with you for a lot longer than a little while, Loid. Shall we… shall we go home?”