E is for Epiphany - firewoodfigs (2024)

I. CHILDHOOD

keep your helmet, keep your life, son

They befriended each other in the midst of war, when ideological differences tore people—adults, especially—and states up into factions and fractions.

Since they both lived by the border, they saw each other a great deal. Daily, almost. Down by the riverbank that they frequented to collect water, or at the floodplains, where they sat amongst wildflowers for a brief respite from the wars that mired their little homes. (She likes the asters best, and he likes the cosmos most, each one promising an alternate universe—of escape, freedom. A life beyond this one.)

Then one day, she crosses the river. To an adult it might’ve been an enemy incursion, but to a child it was simply that: a crossing. A genesis, perhaps, for friendship. Since there weren’t any sturdy or dependable bridges between, she hopped on stones—gracefully, might he add—and landed at last on his side.

Shaking her skirt to rid it of any wetness, she sits across him and smiles. Warmth floods his chest, and he gasps softly.

It’s like watching a garden bloom.

“Um, hi! My name is Yor,” she offers, one hand reaching out with a towel, part of which is rolled into a small lump. “I… I hope you don’t mind me coming over. I just noticed—um…”

Chagrined, he grimaces and covers the bruise on his cheek, a final souvenir from his father’s rage.

“It’s okay. I’m okay, thank you.”

“Here.” Yor extends her hand like it’s an olive branch, and he wonders if the world might ever be as simple, forgiving. “My mother always rubs a hard-boiled egg whenever I get bruised from a nasty fall.”

“Thank you,” he says, because it’s only polite. His father would have a field day if he found out, but it didn’t matter anymore. He was nowhere to be found. He doubted he would even return home. “A boiled egg. I’ve never heard of that.”

“I promise it works! Just… rub it gently.” Yor does so on her cheek in demonstration before thrusting her hand out, red-faced and earnest. “It helps.”

“Thank you.” He picks up the egg and mirrors her actions, mouth tugging into a small smile. She rocks back and forth as he does so, fidgeting with the hem of her frock.

“… what’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He freezes, but continues to rub the egg on his cheek as instructed. The cloth is warm against his skin. Still he shivers ever so slightly.

“Loid,” he says at last, plucking the name from one of the many novels on his father’s shelf. He can’t possibly tell the enemy his real name; his father would smack him if knew. The syllables taste funny on his tongue, though. Like spoilt candy. “My name is Loid.”

“Loid,” she repeats, lips stretching into amiability. “It’s nice to meet you, Loid.”

“Likewise.”

Neither of them ask to be friends, but it happens anyway, easy and natural as seasons coming and going. Since school is out for the summer, they spend a great deal of time together, living just across each other. Sometimes they skip rocks on the waters. Sometimes they lay back and watch the sun rise, then set, touching mimosas lightly so their leaves close—touch-me-nots, as the girl so kindly teaches him. Sometimes they run around the fields. Sometimes they talk—about their families and their friends (of which Yor doesn’t have many, because her village had deemed her to be most peculiar—a sentiment Loid instantly decries), about their hobbies and books they’ve read. About distant and impossible dreams. Sometimes they eat eggs. Boiled ones, because oil is expensive these days. Sometimes their mothers tease them when they’re out of earshot. Wouldn’t it be adorable if our kids got married? Wouldn’t it be nice if there were no lines to think of, no wars left to fight? Wouldn’t it be great if…

( War isn’t for women , his mother says one day, huddled with him beside a small fire crackling under the shine of a thousand stars. We’re not… we’re not responsible. How can we be? I’ve never once picked a gun, only daisies. I can hardly pick anything. My choices were always limited, you know. Even your father… Something wet falls on his hair, and he thinks it might be the rain. But the summer is dry and balmy, without even a drizzle in weeks. Women, children… we all lose in the end. Even though we’re hardly responsible for it. We simply suffer, and bear the dreadful weight of loneliness forever.)

Sometimes they pluck apples from the trees of dead neighbours. Sometimes they chase geese and catch mice. Sometimes, once or twice, he brings her to meet his friends—who thankfully only refer to him as Advisor, and who all fall strangely mute—a stark contrast to their usual garrulous selves. (They tease him about her relentlessly after, but he pays them no heed. She’s just a friend, after all.)

Sometimes, he wishes this could last forever. This , not the war. This idyllic scene of frolicking around fields in between rumours of explosions and faraway sparks.

But the war stretches on, for days, and weeks, then months. For what feels like forever. And then things fall from the sky like dying birds, and everything is smog and dust and ash. And the boy remembers his father’s rage, boiled eggs on bruises, fast friends and best friends, the solace of his mother’s arms on a cold winter day. The stupid helmet that preserves his little life. The friends he’s lost. The lies that adults fed him in place of food; five lies for a flayed scrap of fish. The smiles he will never witness again. The faces dimming in the shelves of his mind. The darkening world, sunless fields cloaked gray. The hunger that haunts him and the bruises that maim his skin for years after, with no eggs to ease the sting.

He tosses them all into the burning pyre for revenge.

II. JUVENESCENCE

just a flesh wound, here’s your rifle

The war takes, and takes. Mothers and toddlers and fathers and friends. Lives and hopes and dreams and homes and food. The enemy even contaminates the rivers, because apparently more soldiers died in war from diarrhoea than combat.

He’s parched and starved, but since he’s made the decision—one that he increasingly thinks was gravely unwise in hindsight—to enlist and fight for his country, he simply endures it. When he can’t, he eats tree bark, and dull mushrooms he deems to be safe for consumption.

When he pulls the trigger and carries out his orders, he makes sure to pilfer whatever rations his enemies have, too. There was no point saving food for corpses. In any case the war left little room for respect or religion, neither of which helped one survive.

Only their wits and legs do.

So he sleeps with one eye open every night, and runs steadfastly for his life. It’s endless and all very futile. Death is always just around the corner, waiting to strike. And sometimes he wonders if it might be easier if he just pulls the trigger on himself instead—treasonous, but not uncommon. These days it seems to be a rising trend amongst his comrades, and unlike some of them, he doesn’t even have anything left to live for. His friends are gone, and so is his mother, and his old home in the woods. He only has himself left. It’s a tempting thought. He toys with it a lot. Especially during night sentry, when he’s up hiding in the trees, feet swinging limp like branches as he lights another cigarette like it could quell the acid storm in his stomach. (He’s so hungry.)

Then the enemy arrives, and suddenly all he can think about is survival. It’s instinct, the way he slings his rifle back on and takes cover behind the rhododendrons—all black in the night—and prepares himself, once more, to pull the trigger. Suddenly he doesn’t want to die. Suddenly he wants them to die instead, to pay for their crimes—as if the theft of one life might return those now six feet under.

But it never does. It’s endless and all very futile. Meaningless, like the books once preached. A new dawn breaks, and he perches himself on another tree, waiting for nothing.

Then one day, another enemy asks for a time-out and a cigarette. This enemy is… peculiar. Unlike any other. The curly-haired runt practically grovels before him and swears he has no intent to attack him; he just needs a moment’s respite because he’s been running so much, so futilely, so endlessly, and who is he to deny such a request when it’s all he’s ever wanted since the war’s inception?

So they talk, and smoke, and talk, until they disagree.

Roland raises his gun again, ready to fire.

Something fires at them instead. The enemy flees. Bullets spit and spray at him like a violent bout of torrential rain. One of them narrowly scrapes his arm, which he uses to cushion his fall. Something in him snaps—a bone, perhaps, the pain sharp and searing like a blade ploughed through fire before flesh.

Another bullet lodges firmly in his calf, and Roland screams.

sir, i think he’s bleeding out

There is a deep, dark river that obscures his vision and veils the sight of fresh dawns. Perhaps this is what heaven is like, or oblivion. Groggily he wonders if his mother is here. If his friends are here, or Yor.

Or perhaps this is hell. That makes sense, actually. None of them deserve to be here—none but the Ostanians who had instigated this bloody war. (Except for Yor.) And himself, after everything he’s done.

The fact that his leg feels like it’s on fire affirms this suspicion.

Hell is certainly a rowdy place, however. Around him clamorous voices yell out orders and requests—for morphine, opiates, syringes, bandages. There’s a great deal of screaming, too, steel clanging and clattering around the place. His eyes twitch at the surrounding din. Something rough and scratchy scrapes against his skin; a far cry from the round, whole smoothness of the boiled eggs he and Yor used to rub against their bruises. Something falls and crashes. Someone mutters what sounds like an apology. Then something tender and warm caresses over his temples, like a ghost of a memory, and Roland stirs just slightly before the river wrests him back into the tenebrous.

just one single glimpse of relief

When he at last opens his eyes, he thinks he might be sorely mistaken.

This is heaven, because Yor is before his eyes, as luminous as he had remembered her to be. She’s an angel. Surely she must be, or a ghost; why else would she be here when her house had been blown to bits like his?

“Loid,” the angel whispers quietly, and he reclaims that name in secret, in earnest.

Light floods his vision. He reaches for it, and a firm but gentle hand plucks him out of the murk.

to make some sense of what you’ve seen

It doesn’t make sense, how they’re both the sole survivors of their households, how they’ve reunited in the thick of war when they’re supposed to be on opposing sides.

But nothing makes sense to him these days. His mind is perpetually shrouded in a muggy fog, and it pains him to even speak; the gravelly pits he had fallen on had apparently ripped his lips and chin so badly that even the nurses had trouble getting the hospital’s watery brand of gruel through. He spends a lot of his days drifting in and out of sleep, because it’s more painful to be conscious and reminded of all the things he’s lost. Though he’s lucky he can still feel his limbs. It could’ve been worse, having all those blown off; he would hate to be a liability to anyone.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t one, however. It’s a wholly new experience to have Yor not just offering him eggs for bruises. Instead Yor routinely changes his bandages and dabs his wounds with iodine, apologising each time he so much as winces. She helps him out of bed, too, and feeds him, and expertly administers just the right amount of morphine when the pain gets unbearable—enough to quell the pain, but not enough for him to develop an unhealthy dependency.

To his everlasting horror, she even bathes him.

The state of his body right now—reedy, battered and scarred—is not something he’s particularly proud of. He tears his gaze from hers in shame; she does so out of respect. Ever professional, she lathers him up with the standard-issue lemongrass soap bar, sponges him, then helps him back into his hospital gown—a papery excuse for clothing—and back into bed.

“M’srry,” he mumbles groggily one night, after she’s administered a dose of opiate sure to knock him out.

“What for?”

“… trouble,” he murmurs back, eyes already fluttering shut. He’s so tired. Inexplicably so, considering he’s been doing nothing but sleep and burdening his childhood friend, for whom he has a million questions for.

“You’re no trouble.” A cold towel presses against his forehead, and he sighs in relief. “You could never be. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters.”

So is Yor. Alive, and warm, and still so sweet and compassionate despite the war. Despite everything cruel and tragic. Nothing could ruin her wondrously good heart, it seemed. Soft, and gentle. Alive .

That was reason enough for him to live.

with you i serve, with you i fall down

“How did you…” Loid starts one day, trailing off meaningfully as he peels off the rind of a clementine and offers her a slice. “You know?”

“How did I what?” Yor replies, in that soft, teasing way, accepting his gift.

Suddenly he’s ten again, back at the riverbank, scooping up tadpoles with her and tossing crumbs at ducks brave enough to wade through a warzone.

“Live,” he breathes.

“I… got lucky,” she mumbles, eyes downcast. She chews on the piece of fruit carefully, then wrangles her hands. “Or unlucky, perhaps.”

He can empathise. He had spent most of the years after his mother’s death wishing he could have died in her stead, but that sentiment did not bring her back from the dead. On the contrary, it only brought him immense dread; how useless he was in the face of that all-consuming blast that had reduced most of his hometown into a blip, a forgettable blot in history.

“But,” Yor continues, a small, plaintive smile playing on her lips. “At least I’m lucky enough to be alive with you, Lo–I mean, Roland,” she eyes his nameplate and catches herself in the nick of time. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He fumbles for her hand through the sheets, and enfolds it in his. “I feel the same way.”

watch you breath in, watch you breathing out

Yor is an excellent nurse. The best there is, in fact. Always unfalteringly kind, even when her patients are beyond unreasonable and cruel. Even when they lash out in pain or flail wildly in bed. Regardless of their behaviour, Yor always greets them with a smile, a cold compress, a word of encouragement, something to relieve their ache. He had always known it, of course, that she would be remarkable in whatever vocation she so decided to pursue. But to see her at work like this… it makes a certain kind of pride swell in him, and Loid can’t help but watch her fondly—so much so that other patients start calling him out for it.

“You look at her like she’s some kind of goddess,” grumbles his ward neighbour, a crabby soldier who had lost half his right leg to an explosion.

“Yeah,” chimes his other neighbour, with a long gash running down his face. That, he had proudly declared, had been earned from a skirmish with an enemy soldier, whom he had eviscerated with little more than a dagger and his bare hands. “You practically worship the ground she walks on.”

“Can’t blame him. She is very pretty.”

“Mm. She’s got quite the figure, doesn’t she? Even through that shapeless uniform, you can see…”

The one with a scarred face makes an obscene gesture around his chest, and they both break into raucous laughter. Loid silences them with a contemptuous glare. Such lascivious talk was not uncommon amongst soldiers who, apart from being stationed deep in trenches faraway from their respective families, were heavily deprived of women in their company. Brothels boomed in business at war, therefore, expanding to accommodate the depraved—or as some might argue, simply deprived. (Once or twice, Loid had received an invitation to join them, but he had stoutly refused. Sex was the furthest thing from his mind while his country was at war.)

That was no excuse for irreverence in his books, regardless.

“Relax a little,” the crabby one grouses. “It’s not like she’s married or something. She’s not yours either, is she? There’s no need to get so defensive.”

True, she wasn’t his in that sense of the word. But she was his friend, wasn’t she? And friends looked out for each other. Friends protected each other. (Friends did not bathe each other, but his mobility had been limited then, and she had been nothing but professional. Surely she didn’t regard him that way.)

“Yeah, lighten up. Either marry her or leave some for us,” he snickers distastefully, and Loid wrenches an apple from his nightstand with every intent of throwing it—at the exact moment Yor springs up beside him.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Loid grunts out, lowering his arm in surrender. An ensuing fight, regardless of fault, would only create further trouble for Yor. “We’re just talking. Don’t worry.”

“Oh.” Yor blinks, then greets the two degenerates with a polite smile. “Was there something you needed?”

“No,” they both pipe in, more than happy to ogle at the beautiful nurse.

Loid spends the rest of the afternoon fuming in bed, plotting their demise.

only twenty minutes to sleep

Later that night, Yor sneaks him outside. He hobbles clumsily behind, and she loops an arm easily around his waist to assist with movement. It’s so unlike the days where they used to catch geese and chase mice. And reminiscing those times, he can’t help but wonder dimly if he’ll ever get that kind of mobility back. Or had he, too, taken all those tranquil summers for granted? Sure he was recovering–and well at that, under Yor’s tender care–but even Loid highly doubted he would be able to ever run like the wind again.

“Thanks for sneaking me out,” he grins, wincing when his ankle catches onto a patch of grass, causing it to twist in a weird angle. Yor fishes him out with ease. Her slender frame betrays none of her strength; she hoists patients around like they’re air. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yor smiles, incandescent in the moonlight. “I thought you might appreciate some fresh air. I know it can get a little stuffy, being crammed inside a ward with so many other people, but…”

“It’s not your fault there’s limited space,” Loid shrugs. Even a simple movement like that still jolts a fresh spark of pain through his joints. How troublesome. “Plus it’s not all bad. At least there are beds here. Outside, it’s just…” Grimacing, he staves the memory off as best as can, but the image resurfaces anyway; makeshift beds of boggy moss and planks of rough wood, mud, wet sand. Corpses piled high. “Never mind.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you were forced to endure,” Yor whispers sympathetically. “How much you suffered. B-but… what’s going to happen to you after you get discharged?”

“Get discharged, I suppose,” Loid twists his mouth in contemplation. “From the military, I mean. I’m not sure. I haven’t seen my commander around, but I can’t imagine I’ll be of much use of the field like this.”

“Oh,” she says, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“When they brought you in…” Yor inhales sharply, yanking the sleeve of her uniform. “I couldn’t believe it was you, at first. I thought I might have been dreaming. You were so badly wounded. Your bones were broken, and there was blood everywhere, and it was a miracle you even survived after losing so much blood. I…” Tears start welling in her eyes, and before he can even reach out they’re spilling forth like rain. “I thought you weren’t going to make it, you know. You were so pale and cold, unresponsive.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, balancing on his crutch with one arm and swiping gently at her cheeks with his good hand. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, I promise.”

“I know, silly,” Yor giggles through her tears, the sound softer than bells. “That’s not what I meant. I meant… I’m just glad you’re here. I couldn’t… that is–um,” she gazes down, digging the tip of her shoe into the ground. “I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

“Me neither,” Loid confesses solemnly. “Thank you for taking care of me, Yor. I—” he breathes, catching himself. He what ? “I’m sorry for being a burden–”

“You are not a burden,” Yor cuts him off emphatically, gesticulating. “You’re never a burden. You’re… you’re my friend. It’s what friends do, don’t they?”

“Of course.”

Friends. He can live with that—as long as he doesn’t lose her again.

Only the government has other plans, of course.

but you dream of some epiphany

His body betrays him and makes a full recovery, and this time he’s recruited by military intelligence. To be a spy. To throw away everything he knows, once more, to a burning pyre; every material possession, every part of him that the world has a stake on.

Every part of him that Yor has a stake on.

“A spy has no attachments,” his recruiter–some f*cking cowboy-wannabe who should’ve really stayed out in the wastelands and farms, instead of selling out to some stupid spy organisation–claims. “Throw it all away.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then I’ll have to have you court-martialed, unfortunately.”

It’s a fancier way of saying execution. And f*ck , he’s only just barely reunited with Yor, and now what? Abandon her once more? Leave her alone, to be ogled by lesser men who saw her as little more than a warm body?

As it turns out, his querying is pointless. The choice has already been made for him. The man snatches his bag and dumps it into a nearby fire, and that’s that. He barely even has time to bid Yor a hasty farewell, but he manages to sneak a few letters to her post on occasion—and though his Handler gives him hell when she finds out, she at least doesn’t burn Yor’s letters.

A month later, however, he hears news of a fire claiming that particular barrack she’s deployed to. The bodies are unidentifiable. Only ash remains. But Yor has always been good at running, hasn’t she? She’s always outrun him on the fields, and she’s perfectly healthy—athletic and strong, even, hoisting burly men up onto their beds like bags of feathers, and it simply can’t be. She had escaped death before once. Surely she can do it again, and she must, because—

No survivors , the report says.

Just like that, he loses Yor again—this time for good.

(It’s a fate worse than death, living with the weight of her death.)

III. AFTERLIFE

The war grows cold, like turkey left out on the table overnight. Even the states grow weary eventually and run out of morale and resources, of young, impressionable men to dispatch to the frontlines.

So they reach an armistice a year later. It’s not a treaty, but it’s something. At least it’s raining cats and dogs these days instead of bombs, although that’s no reason for complacency, as his Handler is often so fond of reminding him and everyone else in this horribly parsimonious organisation called WISE.

Twilight continues his odyssey through life like a ghost. Since her passing he hasn’t had much, if at all, to live for. He simply awaits his own death with nurtured detachment; keeping everyone away at a healthy distance. It’s what spies do anyway. A spy has no attachments , as a certain recruiter with a pathetic excuse for a beard once claimed.

Despite the veil of peace, or perhaps because , Twilight is sent on several missions—some requiring infiltration, and others requiring actual combat; most requiring some sort of disguise. When he’s done, he trudges back to his squalid shack, impersonally empty. On occasion he heeds his stomach’s warnings and pops something in the microwave, maybe a TV dinner or a slightly mouldy sandwich. Other times he boils eggs by the dozen and keeps them in the fridge to ration them out for the week.

Mostly, though, he starves. Takes a dram, and a puff, and waits impatiently for death to claim him.

Day breaks again, and again. All he feels is disappointment.

just one single glimpse of relief

A decade passes like this: missions after missions after missions.

Somehow, despite his best efforts, he doesn’t die. His adversaries are laughably slow; they fall prey to the chase of bullets like mice to a cheese trap. He had even given them multiple openings for pre-emptive strikes, for crying out loud; thrusting himself recklessly in the crossfire.

Yet somehow his fingers always know. To pull the trigger. To fight, whether in offence or defence. To preserve his sorry little life. Perhaps his Handler’s training sessions had been a tad too effective. (Perhaps she had been once like him, too, and so saw a need to drill all this into him until it became muscle memory, involuntary reflex.)

On occasion he’s sent on honeytraps, too, because WISE had deemed him to be the most handsome of the lot—a compliment that falls flat when he realises what it entails. By virtue of his good looks, he’s tasked to cavort with heiresses and coparceners, all daughters of highly important people. Fornicate with them, if necessary. Execute every sordid fantasy to anatomical perfection. It’s all rather unpalatable, no matter what the other men might say—reprehensible, even—but morals are about as dispensable as spare change when peace is at stake.

(Once or twice, he tries to imagine Yor beneath him—and shoves that thought away immediately with disgust. How could he possibly deface her memory like that? They had been friends, and nothing more. Any such impure thoughts had no place residing with the sacred memory of her visage. Her lingering ghost was a pithy consolation, however, always so cold and unfeeling. What he would have given to feel the warmth of her hand in his again... Slain a lamb on the altar, go once more to war. Anything.)

And then one fateful afternoon, Strix lands squarely on his lap like a death sentence.

His mission: find a family and infiltrate Eden Academy to keep tabs on Donovan Desmond. That means he’ll need a child—and a wife, too, because that silly, snotty school verily believed that a child’s path to success required the sturdy, unwavering support of two loving parents.

The coffee scalds his tongue. Twilight sputters like he’s swallowed acid, clutching the newspapers so hard it shreds into rips. He had long forgone hopes for blissful matrimony, the white-picket fence and the whole nine yards, and the joys of an ordinary life since joining WISE proper. (Since Yor died.) A family was nothing but a liability for a spy like him, who thrived in secrecy and solitude.

Yet somehow, the thought of having a wife that wasn’t Yor was more nauseating than going to war.

(But what was the point of just now realising that she had been the sole object of his every affection? His every desire? That he would willingly wage war a million times if it meant he could bring her back from the dead? It was wishful thinking. She was gone for good, and that made his life incurably and infinitely worse.)

to make some sense of what you’ve seen

Espionage required deaths in many forms: deaths of threats, nemeses, old selves. Twilight, too, dons a new life and puts to death every remnant of his past life to the grave, with the exception of Yor. The grave she has in his head is grand, crowned with flowers of every variety: asters, cosmoses, roses and cloaked permanently in a soft, pinkish glow in the shade of the blush that dusted her cheeks whenever he teased her about something, anything. And every year, on the twenty-ninth of august, he procures a varicoloured bouquet and places it in a vase, the only pop of pastel in his otherwise crummy apartment. (He’s never been able to locate her grave despite his best efforts, so he makes do instead with the mental shrine he builds in her honour.) Pours himself a glass of wine. Says a prayer for her, and his mother and friends, despite his leaning towards atheism. There’s not much else he can do, apart from hoping she’s in a better place. (He had hoped her death was swift and merciful. Painless. An angel like her deserved nothing less. As painless as it could be while smothered by smoke, skin and bone burnt to crisps. As painless as cells of a baby not yet fully formed floating from womb to ether.)

Four glasses later, he stares at the ceiling, watches a wilting flower, and resumes his wiry, expiring life.

But fate has always had its way of mocking fools, Twilight learns. A twisted sense of humour. One moment he’s paying his respects and allowing himself a sliver of a slippage into his old life, into that effigy of a carefree boy teeming with hope.

The next, Yor appears before him like a ghost.

He’s sure he’s sorely mistaken, though. Perhaps all the lack of sleep had finally caught up to him so that his eyes were now playing tricks. A cruel prank, to be honest. Surely it was just someone in her likeness. There were plenty of fair-skinned women in Ostania with jet-black hair and fashionably pink coats, and not a lot of them had red eyes, but that wasn’t a genetic impossibility either.

Surely it wasn’t Yor. It couldn’t be.

“Ah, Yor,” the tailor calls, and his entire universe—the pathetic little cosmos—folds in, collapses. “There you are. I was starting to wonder if you had forgotten about your appointment, after all.”

“Of course not! I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

The lady in question even speaks like Yor, in the same soft, deferential tone, taking blame for everything and anything.

“You’re staring,” the tailor, Mrs. Hatter quips. “Is there something I could help you with, sir?”

At that moment, Yor’s gaze lands on him, and she gasps sharply.

“L-loid? Is that… is that you?”

That is the alias he had picked for Strix, because he had truly believed the only person who knew that name had departed this world.

“Yor,” he breathes, beyond astonished. Twilight pinches himself discreetly on the thigh; she remains solid and present. More incandescent than he remembers her to be, even with age and time. “It… it is me. Loid.”

“Somehow I get the feeling I’ve intruded on something highly private,” Mrs. Hatter remarks candidly. “Now, are you here for a new suit, or something else?”

“I—oh, I apologise, Mrs. Hatter. We’ll be back.” Loid shoots her an expression of rehearsed charm, and pushes the door open. He gestures to Yor. “Shall we?”

Yor nods, lips parting in shock as her eyes well with emotion—surprise, hope, relief, joy, pain, and something indecipherable. Something that had attracted numerous accusations from his honeypot targets; of having his mind a thousand miles away, his heart enraptured by a mystery lover from another life. Something his higher-ups periodically dismiss as a weakness. Something that mirrors the look in his own stare whenever he’s overcome with the memory of her .

He can only hope it is what it is.

with you i serve, with you i fall down

“What a… what a coincidence,” Yor jokes weakly, when they’ve both settled down on a park bench sheltered by a striking silver birch. Her voice snaps him out of his reverie, and his eyes flit back to her. A pretty blush dust her cheeks, and her lips are glossed. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Me neither,” Loid murmurs. It was nothing short of a divine miracle. He pinches himself again, this time on the arm, willing her to vanish. She doesn’t.

“I thought—“

“I thought you died,” they finish at the same time, and a sad chuckle erupts out of them both. Some things don’t change, he supposes. “The news said the field hospital you were working at was completely razed to the ground. That there were no survivors. And I thought…”

“There weren’t,” Yor confirms, eyes forlorn. “It was tragic. Everyone died. My colleagues, my superiors, and all the patients under my care… I felt terrible for years. It was only because I had been sent out that morning to get supplies from a nearby town, but…”

But survivor’s guilt had likely inundated her for years. “I’m sorry. It must have been hard. I hadn’t known. I thought…” Loid sucks in a breath, curbing his own shock. “I thought you were gone, too. I should have tried harder to look for you.” What was the point of being touted the best spy in Westalis if he’d failed to even gather such a crucial piece of intelligence? “I’m so sorry, Yor.”

“It’s not your fault.” Yor shoots him a watery smile as an inky streak runs down her cheek. He swipes at it with a thumb, just like he’s always done. “You couldn’t have known.” But that’s the thing—he could have. If he’d just tried harder, searched deeper… “I thought you were dead too, you know. The ward was buzzing with rumours after you left. The men said your reward for recovery was more fighting on the frontlines. And when the radio reported that your old post was bombed, they all said… said you must’ve been caught in a shelling, or shot dead, or—“

A sob tears its way out of her at last, and she crumples over, burying her face in her hands. Awkwardly he reaches out to rub her back, unsure if he’s crossing some unspoken boundary—though a part of him really doesn’t care. He simply wants to hold her. Kiss her, maybe. It would be a tangible assurance that she’s in fact amongst the living—unless of course this is the afterlife, or a wicked prank, or some viscerally real fever dream.

And what of her letters, then, if she had never stopped writing? Which bastard had intervened and ripped it so cruelly out of his hold? Surely not his Handler. Ruthless as she was, she had exhibited instances of having a heart, if the sleeves of saltines she tossed at him after pummeling him to the ground were any indication.

Then who…?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“Not that again,” Yor laughs, a sound so discordant with her hiccups and sobs. “This… this isn’t a dream, is it? You’re real?”

“I am.” He should think twice before taking such liberties, but Loid cards a hand through her tresses anyway, silky and soft and smelling of roses. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Yor heaves, and she shifts so she’s sitting up. Her mascara has run completely by now, as has the rouge staining her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I must look awful—“

“No,” he interjects softly, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. “You’re beautiful. As you always are.”

He can practically see the smoke erupting from her ears; she’s never been great with compliments. So he cups her hand in his, and kneels. “At least let me take you out for dinner.” As if a meal could make up for lost time, for all the anguish that beleaguered the pits of her heart. It was a start, he supposes. “If you would like, of course.” Then a horrible, sinking dread guts him. He hadn’t spotted any ring, but suppose she preferred not to wear it out—“You’re not… that is, are you married, Yor?”

Yor sniffles. “No, I’m not.”

Hope springs in his chest. Surely this was too good to be true. Or suppose the male population of Ostania had lost their vision and wits in the war?

“A boyfriend?”

“No,” she echoes dully, the tips of her ears beet-red. “My colleagues have been bugging me for ages. They say… they say there are spies everywhere these days.” Loid stiffens ever so slightly, but continues to hold her gaze steady. It slides past her, in any case; she only deflates more and more as she relays her colleague’s warnings. “And now people are reporting each other over everything. Especially bachelorettes my age. We’re… suspicious, apparently. Because if we’re still on the shelf, t-then that means there’s something wrong or defective with us. It means we’re weird.”

“You’re not weird, Yor,” he reassures. “Ignore what they said. People are just blind.”

And thank God they were, because the petty part of him would’ve loathed to see her happy with some mediocre guy who couldn’t truly cherish and appreciate her for who she was.

“I don’t think so,” she starts carefully. “Most, if not all of my colleagues are already married, or in stable relationships. I just…” Yor sighs, slumping further in dejection. “I don’t know. I’ve tried going on dates a couple times, but I just didn’t know what to say or how to act.”

“You only need to be yourself,” Loid reassures. Rising, he returns to his original spot and pats her on the arm soothingly. “I hope your colleagues haven’t given you any trouble, at least.”

“Oh, no!” The smile she flashes him is so hurried and wide, he highly doubts it’s a real one. “They’re okay. They’re all very… um, they’re very nice.”

He doesn’t need to be a spy to know she’s lying. “I see. Where are you working now?”

“I’m a nurse at Berlint General. I only just joined recently, but—“

His lips quirk upwards. “It seems like we’ll be colleagues, then.”

She whirls around to face him, pleasantly surprised. “Really? Wait—how come?”

“I’m starting there as a psychiatrist next week.”

“A psychiatrist,” she echoes in amazement. “Wow. That’s… that’s impressive. I mean, you always have been, of course.”

“So have you.”

“I’m just a nurse.” Yor waves a hand dismissively. “You went to medical school.”

He hadn’t, actually. He’d simply forged some papers to suggest that he had gone to medical school and amassed a wealth of degrees, which were again similarly forged.

“And you saved my life.”

“I didn’t.” Yor laughs feebly, her self-deprecation evident. “The doctors did. I just took care of you, that’s all.”

“I appreciated that more than anything in the world, Yor. Don’t sell yourself short. You… you are a marvel.” An angel, if he’s being honest, but that might be coming across a tad strong.

“T-thank you,” she stutters out. “But I’m really not. I did… I did try to apply to college, you know. After the war, and after my station was bombed, I thought I’d give it a shot. It was what Yuri always dreamed of, but I was just… well, I was never good at studying, anyway. Even the admission test was too difficult for a simpleton like me. I ended up moping around for a while, before moving back to the city to find a job.”

“It’s their loss, then,” Loid remarks, fuming silently at the backward state of this barmy country run by socialist bigots. Didn’t women deserve a shot at higher education, too? Especially someone as extraordinary as Yor? “You deserve better.”

Yor shrugs. “It worked out anyway. If I hadn’t moved to the city…”

“I wouldn’t have found you,” he murmurs. It still feels surreal, encountering her so serendipitously after a full decade of believing her to be dead. Loid dabs at her cheeks once more, grateful that the waterworks have ceased. For now, at least. “How does dinner sound to you?”

Yor giggles. “I—sure!”

—

It’s not officially a date, even if it feels like one. He takes her to a restaurant that straddles the fine line between over-the-top ritzy and cosy, but still respectable. Somehow he doubts Yor would enjoy the former very much, given her penchant for simplicity.

And if it is in fact one, then it’s easily his best date. Twilight has gone out with plenty of women before, but conversation with them has always been contrived, insipid, or vapid; so much so that he’s long fallen into the habit of rehearsing possible questions and suitable responses before meeting them. With Yor, however, all that flies out the window. Everything flows like water. It’s just like old times; he’s beyond overjoyed to note that they’re still attuned to each other’s quips and quirks, every idiosyncrasy. She tells him everything: the places she’s been since the fire that destroyed her last station, the odd jobs she’s worked, the books she’s read, the inadequacies nagging her subconscious. (He tells her everything, too—save for Strix and WISE.)

When the evening comes to a close, he walks her home. Yor invites him into her humble abode, a tiny shoebox with nary a photo hung on the wall, barebones and plain.

“Would you like some tea?” Yor offers shyly, gesturing to her kettle. “I’m sorry. It’s not much, but… rent was something I wanted to save on.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he smiles. “Thank you for having me. I shouldn’t impose, though. It’s getting late.”

“Oh, of course! I didn’t mean to keep you. Thank you for today,” Yor smiles, wrangling her hands out of nervous habit. “It was really nice to catch up with you. W-will I see you again? I don’t mean to be presumptuous, of course, but…”

“Not at all. How does tomorrow sound?”

Yor beams. “That sounds great.”

“It’s a date, then.” Leaning over, he pecks her chastely on the cheek, and hides his grin behind a palm when she bursts into a million shades of red. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Sleep well, Yor.”

“Y-you too!”

(This time, Loid has no intention of wasting a single second.)

—

He sets his plan in motion as soon as day breaks: hunting for venues, flowers, a suitable ring—something sparkly, but still elegantly classic like its wearer-to-be, or so he hopes—all before he takes Yor out that same night to dinner. A couple dances later, they take a stroll along the river that cuts through the city under the main bridge of Ostania, now swathed in garish lights and festive decorations. (The river; the provenance of everything.) He finds a private spot without people and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

Then, he gets down on one knee.

“L-Loid?”

“Yor,” he breathes. The ring sparkles radiantly under the streetlight; a ruby centrepiece framed by a halo of smaller diamonds. It suits her eyes, Loid thinks. “Will you marry me?”

“I—yes, of course I will,” she nods tearfully, kneeling so she’s at his height. His heart soars, then plummets a second later. “But…”

“But?”

“Do you—that is, do you want to?”

“Of course I do,” he replies, bemused. “I wouldn’t have proposed otherwise.”

“I mean… yes, of course. But I hope this isn’t about our conversation yesterday.”

He combs through his mental records hastily, gears clicking. “Is this about what your colleagues said?”

“Y-yes.” Her gaze affixes on the ground. An earthworm wriggles by. “I know… you’ve always been very kind—“

“Yor.” This is an occurrence he hasn’t rehearsed or envisioned. “This isn’t kindness or pity, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not doing you a favour.” On the contrary, she would be doing him a favour by saying yes, but he doesn’t want to wheedle her into anything other than an enthusiastic yes . She deserves happiness, at least, after everything. “I… I’ve loved you for a very long time, Yor. That’s all. I only want to spend the rest of my life with you and strive to make your days happy.”

“Me too,” she sniffles, burrowing her head in the slope of his shoulder. “I… I’ve loved you for so long. I just didn’t think this day would come. Or that you would ever reciprocate.

“And why wouldn’t I?” Loid smiles sadly, nudging her apart gently so they’re eye-to-eye. “You’re too good for me, Yor.”

“ You’re too good for me.”

“That’s hardly true.” He rather feels a bit like a conman, inveigling her like this—for while his affections weren’t affectations, there was no denying the convenient benefit this had for Strix. But Loid simply smiles and slips the ring onto her finger, vowing inwardly to prioritise her joy above everything. “It’s you, Yor. It’s always you.”

Stroking her cheek, Loid coaxes her chin up with a finger and plants a kiss on her lips sweetly, earnestly, passionately. Her lips are soft and warm, redolent of apples from a summer harvest. It’s perfect. She’s perfect. Everything beyond his wildest imagination. Everything he had hoped for in the afterlife, had such a thing existed.

They marry at the courthouse the next day. Yor picks a simple white frock with a sweetheart neckline and tiny floral details, with a gossamery scarf doubling as a veil. Getting swept up in a whirlwind romance and marrying my childhood best friend wasn’t really in my bingo card for the year. Loid grins, and gently places the crown of flowers he’d woven that afternoon on her head—purple asters, white daisies, tiny red roses. I suppose the best things in life are always a little unexpected.

They exchange vows, kisses. I pledge myself to you… Surnames. Yor Forger. His wife. To have and to hold, for better or for worse.

It’s all he’s ever wanted.

—

“Yor Briar,” his Handler drawls, sipping absently at her coffee. He can’t fathom why she’s so committed to that stale, awful mud. It’s probably been left out on her desk for more than twelve hours by this point. “That’scertainly a familiar name.”

“Is it? I’m not sure where I might’ve heard it before.”

“Don’t take me for a fool,” she sighs. “I’ve definitely seen it across some old letters. Quite the scrawl, but I’m not blind, you know. Or heartless.”

“Could’ve had me fooled.”

His Handler scoffs. “Please. You had it easy.” Twilight suppresses a shudder. He would hate to think what her idea of a challenge was, if she considered his training easy. Women, a wise man once told him, were either lunatics or angels. Yor was the latter, evidently. His Handler, on the other hand… “Relax. I’m fine with the arrangement as long as it doesn’t derail you from the mission. I’m happy for you, in fact. It’s not everyday we find our missing lovers we thought dead.”

The lump in his throat expands. He can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic. Deriving joy from his misery. WISE has always been strangely opaque about their agendas, and that’s saying something; Twilight is supposedly a master of disguise and interpreting disguise. The best of their lot, actually. Perhaps he had overestimated himself after all.

Suddenly her expression softens. “I mean it, Twilight. Or should I say, Loid. I recognised that name, too.”

“You saw our correspondence, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then…” Twilight clenches his fist, rage swelling like teacup storms. “She said she continued to write, actually. Even after the fire. She thought I died, because I stopped writing, but I thought…”

“You stopped writing because you thought she died.”

“Yes.”

His Handler frowns. “I don’t appreciate your accusations, Twilight. I’ve allowed you certain liberties even during your training, at risk of being fired for misfeasance, and a whole slew of other possible transgressions.”

“Then who…?”

“I don’t know. I’m not privy to all the bureaucratic happenings of this organisation,” she admits quietly, rolling her shoulders as she finishes the last of her coffee. “You’re not the only one grappling with transparency. Or opacity. But I do know, at least, that our objectives for peace are aligned. You can be assured of that. Perhaps some know-it-all above deemed Yor’s letters to be a nifty distraction and so decided to hide them. Or maybe it simply got lost in the mail. You know how unreliable postal services can be in the war. But that shouldn’t matter now, should it?”

She is right, as always. It shouldn’t. It doesn’t. All that matters now is that Yor is back in his arms, warm and real and enough. Always enough.

something med school did not cover

Living together, as opposed to across the river, did however present its own unique set of… challenges.

For starters— “Um, Loid,” Yor squeaks, blankets piled high to her cheeks. He doesn’t need to see them to know they’re burning red. “The sleeping arrangements…”

Even he is blushing. Just a little. “It’s… whatever you prefer, Yor. I know it’s all a little fast, so if you prefer to sleep in separate rooms instead…”

Yor scrunches her nose and shakes her head, hiding her face in the blankets. He bites back a grin at how adorable she is. (She really hasn’t changed.) “I… no, it’s okay. It’s normal for married couples to sleep together, don’t they?”

“If they want to. Yor, I completely understand if you’re uncomfortable—“

She shakes her head again. “N-no! We’ve waited long enough. Wait, no, that came out wrong. I mean… um, it’s fine with me, really, and I’ve always wanted children of my own someday, anyway,” she rambles, her ears practically smoking. Flustered, she yelps and buries her head deeper into the sheets. “T-that’s not what I meant!”

“Yor,” he calls softly, in a bid to quell her growing misery. “It’s okay. I know it can be a lot. We can sleep together, if you’d like, and if you feel like it’s too much you can always move to the other room instead. I promise I won’t be offended.”

“Um… okay.” Yor exhales sharply, peeking out through a small gap.

Loid smiles, and takes the sheets from her. “Now let me help you with this.”

“What about…” she trails off, padding softly behind him. With one hand he turns the knob and gestures for her to enter; she turns redder than a lobster, a feat he hadn’t imagined possible. “What about… um… our marital duties?”

Loid chokes. Right. Of course. Strix also required a child. Disguising as one was out of the question, even for him. But the last thing he wanted was to pressure his childhood friend—now wife—into anything distasteful. If she were in fact honest (and he suspected she was), then she likely would not have explored such… territories before.

But he couldn’t deny, either, the desire that had spiked since kissing her. The burning need, more like. To touch her, feel her, cherish her. Nor could he deny his obligations. For as much as he enjoyed playing house and taking on the role of Loid Forger, he was still first and foremost Twilight. A man on a mission.

“Well, about that…”

“We might not get tomorrow,” she mutters, so rapid and soft he almost misses it. “We’ve waited long enough, I mean.”

They’re on the same page, then. Almost fully. “Yes, but… do you want to, Yor?”

Yor shrinks against the wall. “If you want to.”

“You’re not answering my question,” he teases, inching close so he practically has her caged. He tucks a strand behind her ear and holds her gaze steady. “Do you want to?”

Abruptly Yor screeches and slips out from under his arm. Then she nods, a jerky, hasty movement before fleeing their room, more red-faced than he’s ever seen her.

Loid just laughs.

“It’s not funny!” Yor screeches out from down the hallway. He laughs even harder. “Loid!”

He makes up for it by taking her out to brunch, and surprises her with fresh sunflowers. Then he takes her to the mall, the gardens, and back home. And on the loveseat, exchanging kisses with shyness at first, then fervour, keyed-up desperation to compensate for lost time.

And everything unravels organically like love.

—

They lay in the dark, splayed on the bed like newlyweds. Are newlyweds. His wife—Yor, he reminds himself, still beyond believing—lies beneath him, flushed to her chest, radiant and wide-eyed and acutely shy.

“I-um, I’ve never…”

“That’s alright,” he smiles placatingly, rubbing her exposed arm. Every inch of her feels incredibly warm. “We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

She's scarlet, even in the dark. "I want to."

"Then trust me, sweetheart. I promise I'll make you feel good."

“I do.”

So does he, and spies never do. (Yet here he is now, entrusting his whole heart and body and soul to the only girl he’s ever wanted and loved. It’s a paradox, truly. It’s insensible. It’s incredible.)

“Can you show me,” he murmurs, stroking her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “How you touch yourself?”

She stares at him bug-eyed, like he’s speaking in a foreign language.

“T-touch myself?”

“You mean… you’ve never?”

“N-no?” she stutters, eyes blown wide with bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

He would’ve gawked, if not for years of practice in deceit. Yor is… God, she’s so innocent. He almost feels like one of those depraved bastards back at the barracks that he had so sanctimoniously derided each time they patronised a brothel or leered at her shamelessly.

“It’s… well, it’s easier if I show you.” He clasps her wrist in one hand, and grazes the side of her hip with the other. “May I?”

“I-okay,” she squeaks, body taut and flushed. Loid smiles, and gently nudges her legs apart before guiding her hand in between. She gasps when he presses her finger to a particularly sensitive spot. “L-Loid?”

“Just relax. You’re doing great,” he whispers, prying her mouth open with his when she attempts to stifle a gasp. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. You don’t have to hold back.”

Her cheeks burn, scaldingly red even in the dark. Loid resumes his ministrations, guiding, coaxing, smiling, until her eyes screw shut and her back arches, chest rising and falling as she heaves. She whimpers his name in sweet strains; he intertwines her fingers in his, gripping her hand as he steers her through her ocean of bliss. And then, moving southward, he parts her thighs wider to bury his mouth in between, paying close heed to every sigh, every whimper, every prick of gooseflesh.

At last Yor snaps and falls off the precipice. He catches her as he does, cradling the back of her head as she blinks up at him dazedly.

“What was—“ Yor pants, gazing at him with wide-eyed wonder. “What was that?”

“That,” he grins, heart pounding wildly against his chest. “Was part of what I’d call lovemaking.”

“Part of?”

“Mm,” he drawls, trailing kisses down the pale column of her throat.

“W-what next, then?” Yor ventures, hands fumbling around the sheets. “Should I… um, help you, too?”

“I’m quite alright here.” Loid smiles. “Just lay back and let me take care of you, darling.”

“That hardly seems fair—“

“Just like you’ve taken care of me all these years.”

“I haven’t done very much,” she mumbles, averting her eyes as he divests himself of his trousers. “W-wow. Um…”

Loid frowns. “We can stop, if it’s too much. I know it can be overwhelming—“

Her expression hardens into flint, pressed with resolve. “No. I want—um, I trust you, Loid.”

“And I love you,” he breathes, drinking in the sight of her as he positions his body above. Slowly, he stretches and sinks into her, halting whenever she so much as winces, and then they’re one and whole, and it feels like his heart might explode.

—

“So have you two consummated your marriage yet?”

Loid splutters, mortified. How lewd…! “Handler, please . Have some tact.”

“Sorry,” she grins, not the least bit contrite. “Strix requires a child, though. In a week. Which means you have about two days left, I believe.”

“That’s biologically impossible.”

“Haven’t you heard of adoption?”

“Well, yes, but…” he trails off, thinking back to his days at the squalid orphanages that he’d been shuffled around. None of the other kids had struck him as brilliant, if he was brutally honest. Most of the boys he knew were either obsessed with fist-fights or gambling or yanking out each other’s baby teeth. Some were content to simply laze on swings and pull unsophisticated pranks, and were more fascinated with exploring the rotting insides of their nose than algebra or painting. In hindsight he couldn’t blame them. The teachers at the orphanage were dreadful. Way too stern, and way too dull. It was in no way a conducive environment for a child’s mind to grow and thrive. “I’m not sure they would be a good fit for Eden’s environment. Or that they would meet Eden’s criteria, even.”

“It is a tall order, I’ll admit.” His Handler sighs. This time, she pulls out a bottle of whisky from her drawers—stuffed full with crumpled papers—and pours herself a glass. She takes a dram and sighs again. “But it’s for you to make the impossible possible.”

“What am I, a miracle worker?”

“Our best spy, apparently.” She says it like it’s the total opposite. “What do you propose, then? I’m not sure the higher-ups will budge on the deadline.”

“Tell them it’s entirely unreasonable. At least I’ve secured half of it.”

“That’s still not a success.”

“Even I need time,” he grouses. “Just… give me a year, or so. If we still don’t have a child by then, then I’ll rethink this and find an alternative. In the meantime, I’ll keep tabs on Donovan through other means. He doesn’t have friends as far as I know, but his wife is a little more well-connected. She’s currently an active member of the Lady Patriots’ Society—a couple of whom may require psychiatric help. Some of the teachers at Eden Academy may be potential patients, too.”

“It’s still a bit of a stretch, however. We at least know Donovan’s son will be starting at Eden soon, but these people aren’t close enough to him to offer any valuable insight as to his next move.”

“His wife could very well be,” Twilight persists, annoyance flaring. “Eden allows for laterals in exceptional circ*mstances. I’ll make sure my child joins his grade and continue to expand my network in the meantime. I don’t intend to slouch around, you know.”

“A compromise,” she smirks. “It seems I’ve taught you well.”

“Well, yes. And you can tell them that I’m not compromised.” Twilight frowns, slightly miffed that they would require so much even after years of unfair remuneration. Frankly, he’s not paid enough for this. He didn’t even want this. “If they’re so concerned, they can send someone else to substitute me instead. I’m sure there are plenty of other spies who would jump at the offer of having to start a family in seven days.”

There were, in fact, none.

(No one bothers Twilight after that.)

—

Living with Yor, however, is the easiest thing he’s done. They remain in each other’s orbit without smothering, a sanctuary after a day of masquerading around colleagues with their best impressions of professionalism and normalcy. He especially likes cooking for her, because she greets and praises each dish with obvious delight, no matter how average. (It inspires him to outdo himself each time.)

Afterwards, she cleans up with him, insisting she make herself useful, and he only acquiesces because he enjoys her presence. Together, in synchronicity, they complete their chores, then settle on the love seat, flitting through channels and pages and exchanging easy laughter and details of each other’s day; his useless, hers indelibly precious, and sink into a marital bliss he’s once thought entirely illusive. Impossible.

All in all, it was impossible to not be enamoured by her. With her.

There was also the matter of their lovemaking, which they did almost daily—and with great zeal, in fact. In the shower, on the kitchen counter, the floor, the love seat, the bed. In his office, even, to her everlasting mortification. (There were benefits to being colleagues, he supposed. Loid always made sure to keep a spare set of her uniform in his drawer in case their passions got the better of them.) Once or twice, he even takes her camping, and makes sweet love to her by the riverbank under the stars.

Each time leaves him more stunned than the last. Since that first time Yor has gotten a lot more expressive, proactive, though her shyness still trumps her want each time; she’s never overtly initiated anything. Maybe she’ll gaze at him meaningfully or nudge him towards their marital bed, but she’s never once articulated her need.

So like any good husband, he teases her. Waits for her to approach him, and broach the topic—which her mouth still appears to regard as taboo, despite her body’s patent need.

When she finally does, he embraces her with ardour and mirth.

“P-please, Loid—“

“Please what?”

She makes a frustrated sound, and practically yanks his shirt off. “Please—stop—teasing!”

(Loid complies all too willingly.)

someone’s mother

A year passes like this, each patch woven with bliss—then agony as her period arrives monthly.

Demoralised, Yor weeps bitterly in the bathroom. He consoles her each time as best as he can, holding her until insecurity fades—or at least wanes. You could never be inadequate, sweetheart. You’re all I ever wanted, and more. You are beyond imagining. Still some part of her feels incomplete, spurring her to religiously mark her cycle on the magnetic calendar they keep tacked on the fridge.

And then, on the ninth month, he hears shrieking from the bathroom. The good sort, he presumes.

“I… I’m late. For about two months now.”

Loid picks her up, whirls her around the living room. Her eyes are twinkling, and he can’t stop grinning, planting kisses all over her like she’s a garden. A temple. An altar, one which he would readily fall prostrate for and surrender his entire heart to.

“I love you.” Kneeling, he presses a kiss to her still-flat belly, and smiles, overcome with excitement. “And you.”

(Twilight means every word.)

—

The first trimester is always the hardest, according to their well-meaning colleagues at Berlint General that can’t seem to stop fussing over them. Loid takes their advice regardless, believing them to be better-acquainted with the realities of pregnancy than he. (He’s never considered this to be a remote possibility for a spy, even.) As a result, he stocks up on fruits and vitamins—folic acid is especially vital, he’s heard—and candles and woolly socks, until the entire house smells like citrus.

“Loid,” Yor chides lightly, when she notices the sudden abundance of clementines and apples on the kitchen counter. “There’s no need to go overboard. I’m fine.”

“This is hardly overboard.” Grinning, he palms the slight swell of her belly. “How are you feeling?”

“A little nauseous,” she admits grimly, and before he’s even had the chance to fret, she adds, “But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yor…”

“I mean it,” she persists. “I just need some ginger tea, and I’ll be good to go.”

“I’ll have that ready in a minute. Why don’t you take a seat? I know there’s a new episode of Berlint in Love coming out today—“

“It’s still an hour away,” she grouses.

Her resemblance to a grumpy cat is uncanny. Loid resists the urge to laugh. “I’m sure there’s something else we can enjoy. Go sit. I’ll join you in a moment.”

“Loid…”

The afternoons whittle by like this, with harmless bickering. She’s always been a little stubborn, but so is he. It’s a jarring switch in routine, too, being able to loll around on the love seat on evenings instead of dismantling drug rings and terrorist organisations and literal bombs, thanks to WISE’s surprisingly generous paternity policy. (Loid strongly suspects his Handler has something to do with it.)

The rumours of a pregnancy glow are also true, at least in Yor’s case. Despite the recent trouble she’s had sleeping, her cheeks are constantly rosy, countenance radiating with infectious felicity. It’s impossible to not smile whenever she’s near. Put simply, it’s paradise. He reckons this is what heaven must be like, if such a fantastical idea existed beyond paper.

Then a strangled sob jolts him awake one night when she’s in the middle of her second trimester, and everything comes crashing down.

Heaven was breakable, ephemeral after all.

—

Twilight goes straight into autopilot; it’s easier to itemise what needs to be done than to allow himself to feel . The first on his list is to drive his wife to the hospital. Her safety is paramount. Stop the bleeding. Check her vitals. Get the best doctor on shift, and stay by her side—

“What’s happening?” Yor cries panickedly through the bustle of activity around her. Everything is a mess. He can scarce think of what to do next, and that rarely happens. He’s never lost his wits even in the trenches, or even while detonating a nuclear threat. “The baby, please—“

“Everything’s going to be fine, Yor,” Loid says soothingly, the words sounding hollow even to his ears. Something is gravely wrong, he knows. The doctors’ looks of frustration and pity says it all. It’s the look he’s seen too often in the hospital; the one they wear like a mask before delivering a piece of devastatingly terrible news to their patients. Still he brushes her hair aside, grips her hand through the waves of panic flooding them both. “It’s going to be okay. I’m right here.”

The anesthesiologist puts her under without even counting. Yor shrieks and sobs, but unconsciousness claims her in seconds, and they commence the surgical evacuation while he waits outside, head in hands. He’d lied. Nothing was fine. Is fine.

Someone calls him after an eternity, a branch through the swamp.

“Dr. Forger?”

Twilight stands, and plasters his best impression of a smile. “How’s my wife?”

“She’s alright. The baby, however…”

Their baby is dead. He’d suspected this, of course, but hearing it confirmed was another degree of gutting. The doctor explains, as delicately as she can, that another pregnancy will likely be detrimental to Yor’s body due to the amounts of radiation they’d found lingering within, and a whole myriad of reasons that fly over his addled brain. He can’t process any of this now. All he cares about is Yor, whose pallid frame now rests on a hospital cot, small and sad and frail. But alive, nonetheless. Alive. Unresponsive, but alive.

For the first time since he’d thought her dead, Loid begins to cry.

—

Yor isn’t herself after the miscarriage—just a husk of her former vibrant self. Of course she isn’t. He’s seen this in his own patients, too; mired brain-deep in depression after losing their brightest ray of hope, their inchoate poems. So he gives her space to grieve, and offers comfort whenever she needs. Tea, a hug, a warm bath. Whatever she needs.

But the thing is, he’s not too sure what she actually needs. Anything he says just sounds cliche and trite, and wholly unhelpful. It was one thing to counsel women mourning their own miscarriages and losses and talk them through the whole five-stage cycle of grief, anger, denial, bargaining, and acceptance. (Sometimes the last bit never comes.)

It was another thing entirely, however, to support his own wife through it. Loid tries to be present as best as he can, but mostly he just ends up shooting furtive, worried looks at her while she stares vacantly at the nursery they had built and now deconstructed and converted back into a study, because it hurt too much to be reminded of all they had. All that could have been.

More concerningly, Yor doesn’t talk or eat much these days, either. She just sits and flits through all sorts of soap operas, likely vacillating between grief and guilt. If she’s not watching TV, then she’s staring at the white box they had received from hospital housing what little remained of their child—with too much to say, and no way to say it. At work she ticks off errands in an almost mechanical fashion, so unlike her usual chirpy self. Even her patients start to worry. She placates them with a papery smile and feeds them sliced apples—all without feeding herself.

After work, she reverts back to being a ghost. It’s heartbreaking to witness, but even worse knowing there’s nothing he can do to ease her ache—especially since she’s decided to sleep with her back turned to him. Loid knows her well enough to know it’s because she doesn’t want to disrupt whatever little sleep he managed with her tears, but all the same, it’s hard not to take it personally. He had always been very tactile with her throughout their marriage, and there was nothing more he yearned for than to hold and comfort her, to love her. For better or for worse.

“Yor,” he coaxes gently one afternoon, when he catches her moping in the hospital garden during lunchtime. “You should eat. Why don’t we try the new diner just across? I heard—“

“I’m not hungry,” Yor whispers quietly.

And that’s that. Grief engulfs her like a shroud; consumes every fibre of her being, including her appetite—as it does him. He’s never felt more helpless in his life.

—

In between his new patients, a whole new barrage of missions designed to keep tabs on Donovan’s next move, and taking care of Yor, Loid hardly has any time for sleep. Nowadays he averages about three hours a night; the statistical average for actual doctors. The only thing that keeps him going is copious, and likely unhealthy amounts of caffeine, and the occasional glass of Scotch or rum. (His gastritis has returned with a vengeance, though; he can hardly stomach his coffee black now.)

If he’s being honest, it’s a lot. Too much, in fact. But since Loid was a trained liar, and a pathological one at that, he denies any such thought as fallacy and persists in this journey of mending without a single complaint.

Until his Handler calls him out, again without tact.

“You look like sh*t, Twilight.”

Twilight bristles. One moment they’re praising him for winning the genetic lottery, the next they’re comparing him to faecal matter. How inconsistent, and how rude… !

“As I was saying, I’ve been keeping tabs on Melinda, and apart from taking a short trip to Hugaria last week, she’s been mostly…”

“Stuck here with her rat of a husband, I know.” Sylvia yawns. “I’ve gleaned that from your report already, and will continue to read it in greater depth.”

“Right. Thanks. I’ll make a move first—“

“We have other more important matters to discuss.” He quirks a brow, already tipping his hat midway in parting. “How’s your wife?”

“She’s…” Not okay, but hopefully she will be. “Okay.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

“Have you spoken to her about it?”

“About what?”

Sylvia sighs, rubbing her temples. Her choice of drink this time is gin—which, by its label, appears to be a fairly high-end import from Hugaria. “Adoption.”

Twilight grits his teeth, tamping the sudden spike of anger. This was hardly the time to discuss Strix, notwithstanding that it should’ve been his foremost thought. The mission comes above everything. That was WISE’s philosophy for its spies; one that Twilight has abided by devoutly. Until now, that is. Until his personal feelings were involved, alongside his wife’s.

“I know it’s not a good time,” Sylvia begins, fiddling with a pen. “Believe me. I’ve tried many ways to talk the higher-ups out of it, but a year has gone, and they’ve been practically harassing me everyday since about the mission’s progress.”

“I see.”

“And I know it’s a horrible time to bring it up.” Did she really? “Before you say anything—yes, I do. I was a mother once, too. I know what it’s like to lose a child.”

Twilight has nothing to say after that. He simply nods, knowing she’s lost her fair share to the war too. It’s why they’re both here now. To protect and preserve what hasn’t been yet ruined: the future. No matter how hazy or amorphous it might seem, tomorrow still awaited them, and it was something to strive towards.

(But what was the point of having such lofty goals if he couldn’t even protect his own child? His wife?)

Sylvia sighs again, louder this time. “Humour me. Let’s take a step back. Have you talked to her about anything at all? How she’s feeling, for example?”

“I don’t think she’s very keen to talk about that, to be honest.” It stings more than it should, despite the fact that he’s never once spoken about his feelings openly. “I don’t want to push her until she’s ready.”

“Men,” Sylvia groans. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Handler—“

“Leave it to me.”

Twilight just nods resignedly. If anyone thought him unstoppable on a mission, then they clearly hadn’t seen his Handler, who was the living, breathing archetype of the irresistible force.

—

As he had correctly anticipated, his Handler visits Loid’s house—his newfound, broken home—the following afternoon, flaunting a blonde wig and an apple pie. Store bought, he hopes, not homemade.

“Hi,” she greets chirpily, the same time his heart pounds wildly. He feels like he might pass out. “You must be Yor. I’m Sylvia, a colleague of Loid’s. I heard about what happened and thought I’d drop by for a visit.”

“Oh, of course,” Yor smiles cordially, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She accepts the gift with grace and invites Sylvia in, a move that has his heart thundering. He can think of a million ways this can go south. “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea sounds lovely, thank you.”

Yor putters about the kitchen with familiarity, going through the motions like a husk of a soul. (Once upon a time, their kitchen had been suffused in light. Now silence screams deafeningly in palpable notes of grief.)

“Would you like some biscuits to go with them?”

Twilight clenches his jaw as his Handler replies with an easy, “Sure, thank you.”

And that’s that. She contrives a smile for their unexpected guest, and the afternoon dithers away with ostensibly harmless conversation, small talk.

“I won’t see you here again, will I?” Loid asks when sunset starts to crawl in and douse his house gold; her cue to leave.

His Handler smirks. “We’ll see.”

These visits become terrifyingly frequent. Still Yor invites Sylvia in every time, because she’s unfailingly polite. They talk about girlish things and the latest episodes of their favourite soap operas—he hadn’t even known that his Handler watches TV or does anything for leisure—and paint each other’s nails. It’s all incredibly bizarre. He feels almost like an outsider observing through the looking-glass. And perhaps Sylvia realises, because soon enough she starts asking Yor out for tea instead. It’s always good to step out for some fresh air . (Loid nearly gags. That’s a tad rich coming from his Handler who’s permanently holed up in her hovel of an office.)

Yor, again, accepts. Because she’s unfailingly polite, and because Sylvia is supposedly good company. He had no qualms about Yor going out, of course; fresh air and a change of environment did have its benefits, though he couldn’t deny he was mildly hurt that she had rejected all his previous offers for a date out. But perhaps there were things she wanted to speak of that only a contemporary of the same sex could understand… he’s not sure.

Or perhaps it was easier to speak with someone who wasn’t the cause of your grief. Deep down, he blamed himself, too, for failing Yor and their unborn child. Maybe the meals he cooked weren’t sufficiently nourishing. Or maybe it was the quality of his… sperm, and the doctors were just trying to shift the blame to the female anatomy, as they were often so fond of doing. And even if it was in fact a problem with Yor’s body, perhaps it would have been in a better condition for growing a child if he’d just found her earlier. Saved her from a decade’s worth of pain and suffering, as she had once rescued him.

He could not possibly blame Yor for blaming him. He’d failed her more than once. This was another in a string of many.

Sighing, Loid picks up the white box on their night desk and runs a hand over its lid. A strange dampness pricks at his eyes. It wasn’t often that he wept, if at all. In his childhood everyone had called him a crybaby—his father, his mom, his friends. Even Yor. Then the war had inured him so, drilled into him a deep credo that tears shed were as good as milk spilt. It resolved nothing, cured neither grief nor fury, and despite multiple proclamations of catharsis, only left its victims with a throbbing headache and dry eyes. Instead he found respite in other vices: alcohol, tobacco. (He’d quit the latter since getting married, but the former was a bit harder to give up completely.)

Twilight had one cardinal rule, however: never get drunk. For one, it was dangerous for a spy to ever relinquish control. And two, he was always a little afraid of what he might become. Who he might become. Would he be like his mother, mopey and depressed and blind to her surroundings until dawn broke to so remind her? Or would he be like his father, angry and violent, lashing out at every minor infraction and throwing picture frames and glass bottles around the house, foisting blame upon the entire world and everyone in it? Everyone but himself?

Whichever it was, it was not what Yor needed now. Or ever. A good husband would… would stay by his wife and support her, and—well, he’s not quite sure anymore. All he knows is that their baby is in a box, cold as a corpse, and his face is wet, and still he’s nary a clue how to bring Yor back to life and vivacity. He feels downright pathetic. Like sh*t, as his Handler had so astutely pointed out.

When Yor comes home, he greets her with a placid smile and offers to remove her coat. She lets him. Then his wife takes a step back and looks at him, really looks at him like she’s seeing him for the first time in months, and wraps her arms around his waist and starts to cry—loudly this time, with no restraint.

So does he.

—

The old grooves return in its own good time, unhurriedly and intuitively. She holds him to sleep that night, humming a familiar lullaby under her breath, and then joins him for breakfast the next morning. He rouses before dawn to prepare something to lift her spirits: apple galettes, sweet omelettes.

When she digs in later and lets out a pleased sound, Loid nearly weeps.

“Loid?” Yor asks concernedly, fork halfway to her mouth. “Is everything okay? I’m sorry. I should’ve woken up earlier to help you with breakfast—“

“No, no,” Loid cajoles, blinking to stave off any unsanctioned tears. Fancy a spy letting his emotions get the better of him… He really was losing his edge. “I’m fine. It’s just allergies, I think.”

“Oh, no!” she exclaims, scanning the table. “Would you like some warm tea? Some ginger might help…”

“I’m alright, Yor. Don’t worry.” As if to prove his point, he sips idly at his coffee and smiles. “I hope breakfast is to your liking.”

“It’s perfect.” Yor beams. “You even made the omelettes sweet. I… thank you, Loid. I’m sorry I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. I know you haven’t been eating well, either…” Placing her fork down, she pads over instead to the fridge and re-emerges with a carton of milk. Wordlessly, she takes his cup of coffee and pours a dash. Just the perfect amount. “That’s probably easier on your stomach, I think.”

Loid glances up at her and smiles fondly. “Thank you, Yor. You’re always so attentive and sweet.”

Yor shakes her head. “It’s the least I can do. I… I know I haven’t been a very good wife—“ He opens his mouth to protest, but she persists. “Sylvia helped me realise just how… how caught up I’ve been with everything, to the point I turned blind to your needs. And I’m sorry, Loid. Y-you deserve better.”

“I just want you, Yor,” he murmurs, removing the carton to intertwine his fingers in hers. “That’s all I need.”

“But I haven’t been there for you,” she babbles on, teary-eyed as guilt erupts in a massive deluge. “You… you lost a child, too. And I…”

“Hey,” he soothes, rising to wrap her in a tentative embrace. Loid relaxes when she eases into his touch, burying her head in his chest. “It’s ok. We’ll work through it together. That’s what married couples do. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, too.”

“No, you were. I know you tried. The problem was… it was with me. I didn’t know how to talk about it, and…” Yor heaves. His shirt is soaked through at this point, but he lets her do so without complaint; she needs the outlet. It’s the most she’s spoken in months. “I just… I felt so ashamed. I wish more than anything that I could give you a child. You would’ve made a wonderful father.”

And she would be an incredible mother, no doubt. Loid smiles, small and a little sad. “You think too highly of me, sweetheart.”

“No. I know it to be true. You’re so… so kind, and patient, and I just… I feel like I’ve failed you as a wife.” A sob wrenches out of her, and she hiccups. “Like I’m stripping you of a family.”

Cradling her neck, he thumbs its nape and tucks his chin into the crown of her head. “You could never fail me. You are beyond me. And you are my family, Yor. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

“That’s not I mean—I mean, I know. Ah,” she sighs, burrowing deeper into his chest. He continues threading his fingers through her tresses, limp and dull, and still petal-soft. “I’m not great with words. I mean… I just wish we could have a child.”

“Adoption is always an option—“ Instantly he backpedals, horrified at his own Freudian slip. The mission was not the priority. Yor was. “If you want, of course. I mean…”

“I thought of it, actually,” Yor admits, crestfallen. “I wasn’t sure how to raise it, but it’s… not the first time I’ve thought of it. There were a lot of orphans after the war that could’ve used a warm home.” Like both of them, perhaps. She shoots him a sad, knowing smile; reading his mind. “After you died—I mean, after I thought you died, I was pretty much prepared to die an old maid. I thought maybe I’d adopt a child or two and live my days out on a farm or something, with some chickens and dogs, and just… you know. Preferably one by a riverbank,” Yor adds, gazing wistfully at their floor.

Had WISE let him off, he might’ve done the exact same thing.

“No one caught your eye?” he teases, caressing her cheek with his knuckles.

“No,” Yor confesses, shaking her head. “D-did anyone catch your eye?”

“No,” he echoes, emphatic. He liked to think the women he was forced to bed and fornicate with didn’t count. They didn’t actually catch his eye; only secrets that he had to fish out and extricate like a latent disease. A disease that would’ve posed an international threat if it had gotten out. That doesn’t attenuate his guilt much, however. “I promise, Yor. You’re the only one for me.” His mouth dries. “And this… this doesn’t change anything, I can assure you.”

His wife stays quiet for an interminably long moment. Then she licks her lips nervously, and clutches onto the fabric of his shirt with a clammy fist.

“C-can I… can I ask you something?”

“Anything, darling. Do you want to sit?” Yor nods, and he ushers her to the love seat. Warmth radiates off her as she sidles in close. “Better?”

“Mm.”

“What did you want to ask?”

“Um… well… my colleagues and I were… chatting.”

As past precedent had shown, that was usually not a good sign. The ones who worked closest with her, in particular, were a most gossipy, churlish lot, who spent most of their time circulating rumours instead of patient reports.

Loid purses his lips and eggs her on.

“What about?”

“They… um, well, they said—um, intimacy,” she squeaks out, ears warming. “Intimacy is essential for a strong marriage, and I know… I know we haven’t had s-se… m-made… um, made love in a while, and I’m sorry. I just… um—I haven’t been feeling it.”

Loid blinks, and swallows a sigh. Were circ*mstances different he might’ve laughed at how endearing she is, stumbling over certain buzzwords even after they’ve gone all the way in practically every corner of the house.

Right now, though, all he can fixate on is how wrong her colleagues are.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Yor. Or apologise. Your body’s gone through a lot, and you’re still recovering, so of course it’s perfectly normal. It’s not your fault at all.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Don’t you have… urges?”

“Well, yes, but your urges, or lack of, are just as important, if not more,” he explains gently, enveloping her hands in his. Intimacy was essential, yes, but there was a time and place for everything, and her body and mind would’ve been in no condition to even contemplate such notions. “You’re healing, Yor. You need time, and that’s perfectly fine. You don’t have to apologise for that. And it certainly doesn’t change the way I feel about you. I love you, and I always will.”

“I love you too,” she sniffles, crossing her legs.

“I mean it, Yor. You don’t ever have to apologise for not feeling it.”

“You… it’s not fair,” she cries softly. Alarmed, he pulls her flush. “How you’re so… so perfect. I don’t know another man who’s half as patient as you are.”

“Speak for yourself,” he smiles. He’s a far cry from flawless, but she’s always accommodated his every shortcoming. “And I’m really not. I… I’ve failed you too, Yor. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you earlier about all this. I thought it would help to give you space, but it seemed that backfired spectacularly. I ended up making you suffer in silence. And I’m truly sorry I did—“

“No,” she interrupts softly. “I should’ve said something. I’m sorry. I just… I had a lot to say, I think. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

“I know.” He’d felt the same way, too. A hole in his heart so massive, a lump in his throat so big it was impossible to speak through.

“Your feelings are important too, you know,” Yor reminds him gently, shifting so they’re facing each other proper. “I know you’ve been pushing them all aside for me. And… and I’m sorry I gave you cause to think you couldn’t entrust them with me.”

“You didn’t, Yor,” he reassures. “I didn’t want to burden you with them either.”

“You are never a burden,” she huffs, and bands her arms right around his waist. He practically melts into her touch; it’s been a while since she’s initiated contact like this, and the feeling of her pressed flush against him is everything.

Loid returns the gesture with fervour, patting her gently on the arm and halting when she winces.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Yor rushes to explain, which almost always means there’s something. “I just… um, kinda knocked my arm against the cabinet the other day.”

Loid frowns. “Can I take a look?”

“I—um, okay.” She pushes the sleeve of her sweater up, but the fabric proves to be too thick, uncooperative. “It’s…”

“Here?” Loid guesses, lightly touching the area close to her shoulder. She nods, and he assesses her carefully, hedging his bets. “Is it easier if you take it off?”

“I guess...” He can glimpse a black tube peeking out from behind, but— “H-help me?”

“Sure,” he replies easily, lifting the hem and slipping it over her head, shimmying it off so she’s left just in that figure-hugging tube. Perhaps feeling exposed, she huddles both arms reflexively around her belly. “Are you alright? Is it too cold for you?”

“I’m alright.” Yor fidgets, palming her belly. Where their baby used to be. “Just… is it unsightly for you? The scar, I mean.”

There is a thick, raised scar that runs across her abdomen; remnants of their worst nightmare. But it’s also a stark reminder that she’s alive. Recovering.

“No. There’s no part of you that could ever be. You’ve seen me, too. I have my fair share of lacerations. You’ve even seen me at my worst, in fact,” he chuckles, remembering his younger, lankier self. Back then he’d been so horrified to be sponged down by Yor even in a professional capacity. Now, however… he has nothing to hide. (Other than Strix, and his affiliations with WISE.) They’re beyond comfort, and he’ll gladly rebuild whatever confidence she might’ve lost in her body. “You will always be beautiful to me, scars and all.” Kissing her on the cheek, he traces the scar in awe, in fright, wishing he could draw stars over. Then he inspects the bruise mottling her arm and frowns. “Wait here, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

Loid pads to the kitchen to boil an egg, and carries over the remainder of her breakfast in the meantime. He waits idly, sipping at his coffee—now lukewarm, but significantly easier on his stomach. When it’s done, he runs the egg under and wraps it in a towel, and strides back to Yor. She eyes him with mirth, having spotted the remedy from afar.

“What?” He smiles. “A wise nurse once told me this works wonders for bruises.”

“Actually…” Yor starts, ducking her head bashfully to hide her self-effacement. “I learnt later on that it doesn’t actually help, you know. It’s just an old wives’ tale.”

“Really?” Loid wonders aloud, softening as he settles back next to her. “It certainly helped my bruises when I was younger, though.”

“It’s just placebo, I think.”

“No,” he insists, kissing her lightly as he rubs the egg against the purple patch of skin. “It was you.”

Yor giggles, and turns to peck him lightly on the nose with mirthful affection; afloat in paradise, he finds respite from the swollen grief of preceding months. They go out on a date the next day—nothing fancy, just a casual meal out at a diner—then on the weekend, strolling around fulgent gardens, and then make love like newlyweds a month later, sweet and electric, without a dry eye.

(A bond rekindles like fire, swaddling devotion and desire, sunshine and salvation.)

someone’s daughter

Yor broaches the topic of adoption again a week later; exactly a year after their unborn child’s death. There are a few nervous habits he’s catalogued in their almost-two years of living precipitating a serious talk: sucking in the tips of her hair, wrangling her hands, bouncing her knees while she spears her fork into apples sliced beyond precision.

“Loid,” she starts, doing all of the above. Jittery. Frenetic, almost. “D-do you remember what we discussed the other time? About adopting, I mean. I mean, it’s ok if you’re not ready to talk about it, of course.”

Loid keeps his expression carefully neutral. This is about as good an opening as he’ll get for Strix, but he doesn’t want her to make any spur-of-the-moment decisions while still waddling out of sorrow’s mangrove. “I wouldn’t have raised it if I wasn’t, Yor.” He covers her hand with his, and softens. “What about it?”

“I just… well, I was thinking,” she inhales sharply. “Considering… you know.”

“Adopting a child?” He finishes, tone casual.

“Mm.” Yor jiggles her knee and forks another apple. “It’s just… we’re not replacing our child, are we?”

“No,” Loid vows. “Our child will always be with us.” Yor nods, smiling plaintively. “Would you like to visit the orphanage tomorrow?”

There were plenty in town. Too many, in fact, from the war, and too little putative parents; there was no need to even make an appointment these days.

“I… don’t know,” Yor shifts jerkily. “I’m not sure I’ll be that much help. I think I might just end up wanting to bring them all home, to be honest. Like a child picking their first pet, maybe,” she laughs weakly.

“Yor.” He wraps an arm around her shoulder and sidles close. “It’s okay if you’re not ready, you know. We’re in no hurry.” Even if Strix was a ticking bomb, and even if the higher-ups and his Handler were haranguing him on the quotidian for failing to yet produce a child. Or in this case, procure one. “If you need more time—or even if you decide to remain childless—it’s fine. I’ll support you either way.”

“Do you want a child?”

“I…” Loid falters. He’s never really given that much thought, to be honest. All he knows is that he needs a child for the mission, but his desire for one was a little fuzzier. For most of his life, he’d truly believed he didn’t deserve one; no sane spy would gladly devote their eccentric life to one. But a child with Yor—“Yes, I do.”

“So do I. And there’s… well, it’s now or never, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” he replies uncertainly. “Fostering is always an option, too.”

“Yeah.” Yor nods with renewed determination. “Let’s do it, Loid. I’ve thought about it long enough.”

So has he.

—

Mercifully, by some stroke of luck, his schedule clears itself out the next afternoon. Thus Loid ambles to the orphanage in search of a miracle. If he’s going to do it this way, then he’s going to do it right. Meaning he’ll pick the brightest child available, whose intellectual prowess—at risk of sounding narcissistic—rivals or surpasses his own.

The director of the orphanage—a sketchy, musty shack—nods insouciantly when he relays this request and leads him to a girl named Anya, who’s sequestered in a dimly-lit room with no other companion apart from a ragged plushie that she excitedly introduces as Mr. Chimera.

Dust motes swirl around her as she moves, and she sneezes lightly. The director pulls a face. Loid offers her a handkerchief. Beaming, she totters off in search of something—a crossword puzzle, he realises, and smiles beatifically as she scribbles out… something. Certainly it was a no-brainer for him, but a scruffy-looking child no more than five—

—gets it all correct.A certifiable genius.

Whirling to the director, Loid nods and declares, “I’ll take her.”

The drunk bozo yawns, nods, and shoos them out without even any paperwork. The girl skips behind him happily, chirping some indecipherable tune like a bird uncaged.

Twilight nods, pleased. She’s the one.

Strix is progressing swimmingly.

—

No more than two hours later, Twilight is convinced he’s picked a dud. No, a dunce. The girl had seemed genuinely shocked to learn that she couldn’t very well purchase a Spy Wars poster with shillings. (He’d caved and bought it for her anyway, because she had looked so wretchedly pitiful with those teary puppy-eyes. Her crying ceased the instant he handed her the poster, however, and it was then he learnt that children were the most diabolical, cunning creatures to ever grace this planet.) But she had already begun to stick to him like glue, and Loid hadn’t the heart to shake the tiny being—who was every bit the clingy puppy—off his leg. He supposed a trial period wouldn’t hurt…

Only she addresses his wife as Mama the moment she bursts through the door, waves excitedly and redoes the whole Mr. Chimera jig. Yor kneels to her height and crumples into sobs as she enfolds the little girl into a warm embrace, and Loid knows they’re screwed. As good as screwed tight, he means, like the wedding photo affixed to the wall. There will be no refunds.

Anya is as good as theirs now.

—

“She’s adorable.”

Twilight stifles a snort. “That’s high praise, coming from you. And she’s only adorable because you don’t actually live with her.”

“That’s likely true,” his Handler smirks. This time, her choice of beverage is a bergamot tea; a fresh import from Estana. “Fancy some tea?”

“… is this your way of trying to poison me?”

“No,” she deadpans, fishing out a mug from a drawer that’s likely a cesspool of germs. Unwashed, if he’s being kind. “I’d take a more direct approach if I was trying to.”

“I thought you’d be a little more subtle.”

Her smirk widens, and she sips at her drink obnoxiously, a pinky sticking out like she’s one of those blighties. “Never let the enemy know your next move.”

He sighs. Enemy, handler, boss. Practically synonymous.

“Why are you still bothering my family, anyway? I’ve done exactly as requested—get a wife, a child. And you’re still hanging out with Yor every other day.” Twilight strongly suspected it was because there was no one else who could handle her shopping spree with so much grace—glee, even. Yor wasn’t a spendthrift, but she certainly enjoyed watching Sylvia run through department stores and clothing racks like a hurricane. It’s quite a marvel to see, actually. Plus retail therapy is always nice for stressed boss ladies like her! “Haven’t you harassed us enough?”

“Your wife seems to think I’m good company,” she drawls, laconic. “Plus I really fancy a shopping companion who can keep up. She’s got some great reflexes, you know. Why, just the other day I nearly tripped and fell into a pile of designer coats, and she helped me up while hoisting five massive bags like it was nothing.”

“She’s not your servant,” Twilight says irritatedly.

“Of course she isn’t.” His Handler grins wickedly. “She’s my friend.”

“She is not.”

“That’s for her to decide,” she yawns, and he backpedals instantly. She had a point. Yor could befriend whoever she wanted, and it was always good for her to have one, given the lack of she’d grown up with. “Not you. And don’t you have your hands full being a dad?”

Twilight grimaces. He did, in fact, have his hands more than full. Not only was Anya’s intellect… mildly dubious, but she also lived up to every other stereotype he’d formed during his young, impressionable days at the orphanage spent hackling for gruel and secondhand toys. She picked her nose and pulled faces whenever confronted for homework, and was a genius at making him feel like an idiot for even trying to teach her in the first place. Once she even tried to stretch her own snot out like dough in morbid demonstration. Look, Papa! Look what I can do! When she actually sat still, it was to watch TV—and of all shows, it had to be Spy Wars. The on-screen exaggerations and inaccuracies were nothing short of insulting. She picked at her food, too, and ate with dirt-crusted hands after a day of playing in the park despite his best endeavours at enforcing etiquette. She was also terrible at maths. Anything beyond her ten fingers was beyond her, least of all unknown variables. And though she had consistently expressed enthusiasm at the prospect of art… her drawings were practically unrecognisable, and not in an abstract, avant-garde way. Her tigers looked like mangled cats, and her lions resembled flopped dogs.

So yes, he had his hands full. And with the next round of admissions to Eden just around the corner, he felt a lot like ripping out his hair these days.

“If you were so concerned, you would cut back on my side missions.”

“I’m helping you to man up.” Twilight rolls his eyes, and she softens, a peculiar look crossing her gaze. “But try to loosen up a little. You make me look sane.”

Twilight scoffs. She was irrefutably insane.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll be making a move. I have a daughter to entertain.”

“Tell her I said hi.”

—

Despite everything, Anya has her… moments. Occasionally. Like when she rates them both a hundred points during one of their practice interviews (and sends Yor into a blubbering mess), or scampers up to Yor whenever she’s down to shower her with affection and hugs, or shoves indecipherable drawings of her family—them, but with worrisome hairlines and misshapen jaws—up in his face.

In those moments, even Loid simply can’t resist picking her up or patting her lightly on the head. Who could? Anya grins ear to ear whenever he does so, an impish twinkle in her eyes. (Loid highly suspects she knows exactly what she’s doing, but it’s too late. She already has him wrapped tight around her knobby little fingers.)

“What would you like for dinner tonight?”

“Mm… Hamburg steak! With peanuts!”

Loid rolls his eyes fondly, the same time she burrows her head in the crook of his neck. She’s startlingly tiny, he realises, and Loid makes a mental note to research on holistically nutritious recipes for a growing child.

“We just had that yesterday.”

“I like Papa’s cooking, though.” Her fist clenches around the front of his shirt. “Mama’s…”

Loid winces. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s gotten a lot better. Like, a teeny-tiny bit.” Anya supplies, beaming. “And I like her stew.”

“Me too.” The best thing he’s ever tasted, to be honest—like if one’s childhood could be resurrected in the form of food. Anya giggles. “What?”

“Papa’s a sap.”

“I am not .”

All in all, Anya fits them like a missing puzzle piece, and together they’re three peas in a pod.

holds your hand through plastic now

Since the year’s intake had already closed, this gave them at least a few months to prepare for Eden’s next entrance exam—though that was hardly an excuse for complacency in his books. (When inquired, Loid had gently explained to Yor that it would be in the best interest of their child’s future to attend the best school and have the best opportunities available to pursue whatever dream they so had. Yor had heartily agreed, thank god, although she certainly didn’t believe in pushing Anya too hard, being the gentler parent. The better parent, actually.)

And since Eden believed verily in the holistic development of a child—a most elusive thing, Loid learnt, as he scoured feverishly through books on parenting and the like through the night—he, too, adapted his approach accordingly. These days their nights were littered with more instances of fine dining; something that seemed to fit both Anya and Yor like too-large gloves. Ill-fitting coats. Which was to say not at all. His daughter picked at peanuts and his wife stroked the blades of the diverse range of knives splayed across the table, and none of them ever left the restaurant feeling full. He also brought them to museums, to the opera, and other activities that people of high society seemed to frequently partake in and enjoy—all of which bored them out their wits, if the little snores flanking him were any indication.

“I’m really sorry, Loid,” Yor gesticulates as soon as she rouses. The crowd is applauding. Anya is still snoring, snuggling up to him in blissful ignorance. “I didn’t mean to doze off. I’m so, so sorry–”

“It’s quite alright,” he reassures, sealing her profuse apologies with a kiss. She flushes at the public display of affection, and anxiously straggles out a few tangled strands. “ I should be sorry for dragging you here. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“No, but if it’s yours…”

“It’s not really,” he admits grimly. The only reason why he hadn’t dozed off like his girls was because he’d sat through far worse. Like the meetings with WISE’s higher-ups that involved old, hoary men droning on for hours about everything and nothing. “I just thought it would… well, prepare us for Eden’s interview, but I think I might need to rethink my approach. There’s no point pretending to be something we’re not.” A bit rich, coming from a literal spy, but—”I mean it, Yor. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m still sorry,” she says glumly, slumping into her seat.

Loid rights her up with a hand around her waist, smiling when their foreheads touch. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Your company is more than enough.”

In the end, he carries Anya into the car, who nestles happily into her mother’s lap and continues sleeping the entire ride home. She jolts awake as soon as Yor pops the TV on, now showing a rerun of Spy Wars.

Loid sighs fondly as he ambles to the microwave to prepare a bowl of popcorn. His daughter is practically a lost cause, though he supposed she could have this one night of indulgence. She’s worked hard enough. Or at least tried. And perhaps there was a way they could impress the academy with novelty… Not all hope was lost, even when causes were. After all, he’s fairly certain Eden had enough pompous moguls gracing the school halls—enough to last them for generations.

—

To everyone’s astonishment, Anya passes the entrance exam with flying colours on the first try.

She nearly doesn’t pass, however, when Loid nearly plants a facer on Swanson. That ugly, imbecilic, inelegant lout who deemed it fit and necessary to deride his entire family. Normally Loid liked to think he had better rein over his emotions–which were anathema to spies–but Swanson deserved it for insulting Yor. Please, Dr. Forger—you can do so much better than a lowly nurse who can’t even cook! This, to Loid, was outright slander. First, his wife was the best nurse he’s ever met, and not because he was biased; this was simply his objective, professional assessment as a doctor. A medical professional. Somewhat. Second, while she in fact couldn’t really cook, she was incredibly proficient with a knife, and in any case, her worth was not tied to her culinary prowess.

He also deserved it for calling Anya a ruffian, which she wasn’t. Isn’t. Anya was his daughter, and while she was still a far cry from becoming the polished young lady he aspired for her to be, she had her redeeming qualities and was anything but. She was kind, and sweet, and curious, and had a heart that rivalled even her mother’s. A heart as big as her imagination. She wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but she always had a soft spot for animals–especially injured strays–and always had a kind word for her parents, even after years of having unkind ones heaped on her.

Miraculously, she still passes. As a reward, therefore, Loid rents out a castle and quite literally flies her and Yor there in a plane. Anya proudly relegates herself to the role of princess. Franky undertakes the role of–he’s not sure, but it’s probably the court jester. The skit is frankly a little bizarre and incoherent, but Anya is thrilled all the same. Yor appears at the last stage as a witch and nearly kicks him before passing out for a solid hour.

Back home, Loid personally crowns her his queen when they have a moment’s privacy, and takes the chance to renew their vows, pledging themselves to each other while they’re both snuggled up together in bed. He’s sober as a judge. She’s drunk as a skunk.

They both mean every word.

—

Unsurprisingly, Anya’s lack of enthusiasm towards homework and anything remotely academic doesn’t falter. If anything, it only intensifies. That meant he spent most of his time at home observing her as she agonised over arithmetic problems that were plainly easy , dropping hints and prodding her towards the correct answer. She could, on occasion, get it, though she almost always had trouble explaining her workings or reasonings. (It was almost as if she’d plucked the answer right out of his mind, but with no understanding whatsoever how to get there.)

On days where her moods were more dismal, however, Anya refused to sit still, and often tried vainly to wriggle out of his grip and scurry back to her room so she could return to her comics or whatever new form of entertainment she had invented for herself. It was every bit like handling a rankled cat. Every test of intellect for her was a test of patience for him.

One day, Loid finally snaps.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” he vents, burying his head in his palms. “Or what I’m doing, honestly. I don’t think I have any idea of how to be a father.” It didn’t help, either, that he only had the blueprint of what not to do, and not what to do. No hitting, no yelling, no deliberate withholding of food, and certainly no abandoning.

(The last one was a bit hard, given that Strix was supposed to end with his leaving his makeshift family, but he would let hell freeze over before that happened.)

“That’s not true,” Yor says gently, chafing his arm. “You say that, but you’re already beyond excellent. You’re the one cooking all her favourite dishes, and helping her with her homework, teaching her new things, experimenting with new hairstyles, and splurging on new clothes.” A playful smile graces her features. “I could never do half of what you do.”

“You do way too much,” he fusses. “You’re the one dealing with her weird moods and tantrums with the patience of a saint. You’re the one cleaning up after her all the time and wiping off spilt cocoa and—“

“—and we have different strengths,” she finishes. “We love differently, and that’s fine. That’s why we’re a team,” Yor beams. “Aren’t we?”

Loid softens, his earlier annoyance instantly seeping out his bones. “You’re right. Thank you for reminding me, Yor. I should… go talk to her.” His neck warms, guilt and shame like twin flames. “And apologise to her. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that.”

“You’re already trying your best,” Yor soothes, words like a balm. “I know she can be a handful, especially where her studies are involved. I’m sorry I can’t help more in that aspect, but…”

“You’re already tremendous help, sweetheart.”

Yor smiles. “You should give yourself some credit. And Anya, too. I think…” she pauses, like she’s cherry-picking the right words in her head. “I think sometimes, we need to consider too what she wants. I know we’re concerned about her future, but it can be a lot for a child to think about.”

The memory pierces him suddenly, clear as day, sharp as a blade: Yor and him, sitting in a tree—not kissing, but peeling apples and chewing on its sweet, jagged flesh, juice dribbling down their chins as they invented new games and tales and thought only of tomorrow. And his wife is right. As always. As she’s been, since they were children, frolicking under sunlit fronds of green and gold.

“You’re right, Yor. Thank you, again, for reminding me.”

Her answering smile is brighter than the sun. “Anytime, Loid.”

Anya, thankfully, forgives him and seemingly forgets about the incident altogether by morning.

A few days later, though, she requests a dog, citing the same incident that had left him roiling in quagmires of parenthood.

Loid folds immediately. Franky snickers and calls him spineless. He doesn’t care. Anya squeals and sleeps on the dog like he’s a rug, and proudly names him Bond. And just like that, their family of three expands into four.

only twenty minutes to sleep

Even more unsurprisingly, his work doesn’t let up.

“Since you’ve shown remarkable success in the first bit of Strix, the higher-ups have decided to reward you—“

“—with even more work,” Loid finishes, making his displeasure known.

“Something like that, yes.”

“Might I remind you that Strix’s progress is even more crucial now that Anya is actually a student at Eden? I have to oversee her studies, and ensure she’s completing her homework on time, and—“

“—and everything else that a good, ordinary parent would do, I know.” His Handler yawns, flipping through a report with nonchalance. “I know. You’re the best we’ve got, though. Peace depends on you.”

And since it quite literally does, Twilight gives his best: for his country, and for his family. In between missions and new patients and parent-teacher conferences and school tests and assessments, exhaustion sinks into him bone-deep, and he finds himself dragging his feet back home more nowadays, poster of excellent posture that he is.

but you dream of some epiphany

When he unlocks the door, his senses are assailed instantly with bright light, flooded with the smell of freshly-made stew. Anya and Yor sit on the floor, weaving daisy crowns like the ones he’d made for his wife on their wedding day, both beaming the moment they catch sight of him.

“Welcome home, Loid.”

A bark, in between.

“Papa!” Anya squeals, clambering excitedly to her feet. He almost wishes she had half that enthusiasm when confronted with the fiendish evil that was homework. “Come with me!”

Everyone follows her like ants trailing after its leader. Humming, she plucks off a tray holding four colourful eggs and presents them to Loid with a flourish, each one painted with a distorted and squiggly version of their faces: Yor, Anya, Bond. Himself, with the usual three strands of mustard-yellow hair and a ketchup-red tie.

The epiphany hits him, soft and sure as the first spring wind: there was nothing else of real import or consequence, save for his family. His home. It was as Johnson said: to be happy at home was the end of all human endeavour. Everything else was a vexation of spirit by comparison. Armies, politics, stability, and everything he’d burnt himself striving for. Meaningless vanities.

“Papa?” Anya asks apprehensively, pulling at his trousers. Bond nips his socks playfully before curling around him like an indolent cloud. “Do you like it?”

Loid softens and sets the tray delicately back on the counter. Crouching, he picks her up as Yor wraps her arms around them both like a gift.

“I adore it. Thank you, Anya.” He turns to Yor and kisses her on the cheek, earning a resplendent smile. “And you too, sweetheart. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Loid.”