Archive of Our Own

The air inside their home was crisp.

Like everything has been shifted a mere centimeter to the side, the jagged freeze of an unfamiliar air permeated in his lungs. Instinct had him immediately covering his orifices, the intense blue of his eyes sweeping back and forth to every nook and cranny.

In two strides he was in the room, careful of any traps, tripwires, bugs. Gloved fingertips checked the underside of the table, chairs, cupboards—anywhere that could possibly hold any cameras or listening devices. Nothing.

But there was something. He knew it.

He had been a spy long enough to know that not trusting his instincts could prove fatal. Years and years of training prepared him for situations like this, prepared him for the worst possible outcomes.

His pistol was in his hands as his eyes darted, careful to be as soundless as possible. He could navigate this place without light, knew every crevice well enough to see everything in his mind’s eye.

In a flash, he was in his room. Body low, pistol out and ready to fire. He checked behind the door, under the bed, in the closet—nothing. No footprints, no other disturbance with his files and equipment. Everything was the same as when he left it that morning.

He closed the door, not even allowing it to creak as he pushed it shut. Anya. He pressed his ear to his daughter’s door, heard the slight snoring of Bond. Okay, okay. She’s okay. If Bond was there, then surely his daughter was safe.

But.

Better to be sure.

With one swift motion and a specialty tool, he had her door open in six seconds flat. Bond’s ears perked up as the loyal hound woke up, tilting his head in confusion. Twilight smiled, rustling the top of the dog’s head as he tiptoed to the bed, relief washing over him as he peered over his daughter wrapped in deep slumber before making a mental note to replace her locks in the morning.

She’s okay. Just asleep. Just asleep.

“Keep watch, okay?”

“Boof.”

His hand rested on Yor’s door handle. It would be intrusive to break into her room. Of course it was intrusive to Anya as well but she was a defenseless child. His child. He had the right to make sure she was safe.

But Yor… She’s been a little distant these past few days. Through all that time he tried to think of a possible reason why. Did he accidentally say something to upset her? Did something happen at work? Was she hurt?

She’s strong, he’d be the first to know that. He knew she could take care of herself. Knew full well that she was equipped to defend herself should push come to shove. But the nagging feeling was still there.

He’ll check if he found evidence of something amiss.

Dear god, please don’t let him regret that decision.

The living room was cleared, as was the balcony. He knew the kitchen like the back of his hand. Nothing was amiss. Not even a single jar out of place.

What was it? What was it?

There was no foreign residue that he could detect, no harmful substance that he could scent. But it was something familiar. Something that he knows. But what?

His tech sensors detected nothing. The jammers he commissioned from Franky reached nothing. There was nothing detected in Yor and Anya’s rooms. The apartment was clear.

Twilight breathed, steadying the erratic thrumming of his heart. There was nothing off, nothing suspicious, so why? Why was every alarm in his body ringing? Maybe he was just being paranoid. The stresses of the job going haywire, sending false alarms to keep him from being lulled into the illusion of domesticity. Maybe.

He stilled, head cautiously turning towards Anya’s door as the sound of scratching reached his ears. It was continuous, persistent. He raised a brow.

“Boof.”

Ah.

He opened the door just enough to let Bond out, smiling a little as his fingers ran through the hound’s thick fur. Bond didn’t seem alert, which eased his worries a fraction of a bit. Such intelligent eyes. Considering the dog was once a victim of Project Apple, such intelligence was par for the course.

“Boof.” With a slight raise to his brow, Twilight took a step back when Bond pushed his rather large snout against his leg to make his way to the kitchen. Could he be hungry at this hour? Surely Yor would have already fed him and Twilight knew Anya often dropped him treats (which she tried to keep from him, albeit unsuccessfully).

The sound of scratching once again reached him, a little more urgent this time. The cold prickle of his skin returned in waves as he rounded the corner of the counter as Bond pawed at one of the cabinets that he’s checked four times in the last five minutes.

“Bond?”

He grunted, using his snout to push at the handle before looking back at Twilight with those soft eyes, now alight with focus. Obliging, Twilight leaned down to open it for him, his brows furrowing further as Bond’s massive head dove inside.

“What is it, boy?”

“Boof, boof.”

Twilight sighed, flicking his pen light on to compensate for the lack of illumination, his confusion only getting more intense when Bond nudged the several bottles of cleaning agents, letting out a long breath when he toppled over an empty detergent bottle—

Empty?

He just bought them yesterday?

Alarm had his back straightening, eyes alert as he scrambled to his bedroom. He didn’t clock it. He didn’t clock it and he should have, especially when he had civilians under this roof. Especially when those civilians were his daughter and wife.

The apartment had the strong scent of citrus from the cleaning agent that Yor liked to use. While it wasn’t out of the ordinary, he knew Yor usually did a full cleaning session on Mondays so to have the scent be this pungent on a Friday night should have been a glaring red flag.

But maybe Yor just decided to clean? Maybe Anya made enough of a mess that it warranted her mother to use that amount of cleaning agent. Maybe Bond trailed enough mud on the floor on top of it.

Maybe.

He would have come to that conclusion had it not been his wife.

Efficiency was something that he could expect from Yor, even rely on. She was not the type to waste supplies, her frugality will not let her. So to have a full bottle of cleaning agent drained was something out of the ordinary.

Twilight stepped back into the open space of their living room, growling in frustration as his fingers fumbled to open the compact leather pouch he got from Franky years ago as an old utility belt hung from his arm. Inside the pouch was a solution that the informant developed to make bodily fluids light up more clearly under ultraviolet light. It’s had seen some uses a few times, and tonight would be the perfect place to use it once again if he could just get the damned thing open for the love of god and all that is holy—

He ripped the zipper off along with the breath he was holding, easing the tightening of his chest the moment his fingers gripped the bottle of solution. He glanced around for any other sign of disturbances, spraying the solution all throughout their apartment as he slid his ultraviolet light from his utility belt.

He had to fight the urge to gag.

Streaks of blood luminesced across the floor not too dissimilar to a river of invisible violence. Drops of blood dotted the wooden floor like a vicious version of the midnight sky, the drag marks of the now cleaned droplets a horrifyingly beautiful pattern of death.

It was an alarming amount of blood but not enough to be considered fatal. It was concerning. Just concerning.

Waving the light around, more blood was found on the cupboard handles where the cleaning supplies were, some traces on the bathroom sink, on Yor’s door handle—

Yor.

Damn him.

In two strides he was at her door, fists rapping urgently against the wood, heart running in a frantic gallop as the panic once again settled inside him when she didn’t answer.

“Yor,” his voice rasped, ragged as he tried to reach her, call out for her. “Yor, open the door.”

The banging only increased. Louder. Rougher. The sound of wood cracking beneath his fists grating against the inside of his ears as he desperately kicked the door with Bond scratching against the wood with almost the same level of urgency.

“Goddammit.”

The rushing of blood into his ears was loud, too loud, the cold tendrils of fear now suffocating, paralyzing. He couldn’t think, couldn’t goddamned think—Yor, come on, answer me damn it.

Quiet.

With a long growl and Bond’s high pitched whine, Twilight reared back and with his full weight, busted the door open with a deafening crack.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

The light from the single lamp illuminated the room.

Rags littered the ground, all bloodied, all haphazardly tossed across the floor. The single desk chair pushed askew, a similarly soiled coat draped over the back as the glint of a familiar metal captured his view. Droplets, multitudes of them, of the same deep red rested on the floorboards.

The acrid stench of iron and citrus nearly overwhelmed him, the burn of the smell sharp against his nasal cavity. He would have gagged if he were a normal civilian man, his training as a spy the only thing that prevented him from puking his guts out at the floor that he currently stands upon.

The covers of the bed were pushed up in a pile, the fabric also soiled. It was still, silent. The slender form of a single arm, battered and bruised, peeked out from underneath the red.

He was at her side in less than a breath, faster, much faster than the thundering beat of his frightened heart.

Her skin was slick with sweat, clammy with the hastily wiped off blood. The pale color of her skin stark against the blues and purples that littered her visage. She was shivering with labored breathing as her body exuded scalding heat.

“Yor.” He was over her now, one leg propped onto the mattress as his body hovered a mere distance away. Her frame shook like a leaf under heavy rain, more pressing, more concerning. Twilight didn’t know if it was because of the shaking of her body or the furious trembling of his hands.

Calm down. Just calm down.

This wasn’t the time to panic, wasn’t the time to let emotion take over. Yor didn’t need his worthless fear, didn’t need the emotions of Loid Forger that he’s been trying so hard to suppress. She didn’t need all of that. She needed him to make sure she lived.

He needed her to live.

God.

He was pathetic.

His hand hovered over her face with all the gentleness of a whisper, unsure, afraid, before pushing her damp hair away from her face. Slowly, so slowly, he pushed over the covers, breath hitching to a halt when he saw more evidence of injuries.

She dressed them efficiently, it seemed. Judging from her current state, she may have done it through sheer muscle memory and force of will. It was impressive. Yor is a highly capable woman, yet doing such a feat under duress still deserved its praise.

And yet there were still slices that were exposed, shallow enough that it stopped bleeding, but still worrying enough that it might get infected the longer it wasn’t treated.

Lower her temperature first and then treat the wounds, maybe even change the bandages. Make sure she’s stabilized, make sure she’s—

“Papa?”

Not even the damning glare of the barrel of a gun beneath Handler’s care could compare to the horror of hearing that simple word that came from his daughter’s mouth. Every cell in his body iced over, stiff, still, just waiting. It was so slow to turn towards her, instinctively using his body to hide her mother’s visage from the child’s view.

Anya stood by the doorjamb, her white nightgown rumpled and roughened as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand while the other held her darling Chimera plush. There was confusion in those perceptive eyes. Troubled, still clouded with the fog of slumber, standing her ground as Bond pulled at her dress.

“What happened to mama?”

He strode to her, moved into her space as he nudged her over to the direction of her bedroom. She didn’t need to see her mother in this state. Didn’t need to see the blood, the bruises, the wounds. Didn’t need to experience the distress of it all.

“Mama’s just a little sick.” He kept his voice light, brightened his demeanor to hide the stress that was a constant roiling boil beneath his skin. There was a smile on his face, the smile that fooled even the most observant of counter-operatives, as he kept his daughter’s attention on himself. “Don’t get too close, okay? You might catch it.”

She should have believed it. Should have no reason to doubt him. It was plausible enough, especially in the current climate, and was easy for a child to understand. Anya was a perceptive child, sometimes eerily so, but surely he was good enough to lie to a six-year-old.

He was, if the six-year-old in question didn’t know of him as a fucking liar.

Those sleepy emerald eyes widened, stunned. The muscles in her hand jerked, her legs moving on their own, pulling her body forward towards her mother’s bedroom so quickly that it took all of Twilight’s agility just to turn and swoop the girl safely into his arms.

Small fists pounding, dragging her fingernails into the skin of his shoulder so bloody hard that all he could see was the white hot flash of heat as it flooded his system like a brutal wake up call.

“Anya—Anya, stop—!”

“Mama.”

Her legs thrashed, her tiny feet bare and cold assaulted his ribcage as she attempted to claw her away out of his hold.

He could feel the tears now, the hot flood of it penetrating his suit and settling against his skin. She was screaming, loud, the desperation tearing his daughter’s usually cheery voice into that of a broken siren’s call.

It was so close to his senses and yet he couldn’t hear, couldn’t decipher his daughter’s words as the slow whine of air raid sirens overwhelmed him, the bass of it hitting his juvenile body like steady waves of pain and death.

People, so many people, running in all directions in a desperate attempt to take cover.

It was futile.

Nobody could have stopped it. Nobody could have stopped the immediate destruction caused by warfare. Nobody could have stopped the burning, the screaming, the pain.

Nobody could have stopped his mother from dying.

Did he cry like that?

Did his voice break like that, strain like that, hurt like that?

He was small. Weak. Try as he might, his pathetic little self couldn’t so much as help his mother get a better life.

His chest constricted so much he could no longer take in a breath. The dull throb of grief at the back of his throat prevented him from speaking. Ash and debris was all he could see, all he could inhale, and yet the burn from the falling embers didn’t stop calling for his mother who would never have the chance to call him back.

Mama.

Mama.

Mama.

In this oppressing beat of silence, Twilight didn’t know if the screams echoing inside his head were Anya’s voice or his.

“Boof, boof!”

He startled. Blinked once, twice, four times; his heart pumping overtime and yet the breath he so desperately needed eluded him. He was on the floor now, his scratched up hands cold against the newly cleaned hardwood floors courtesy of his currently out of commissioned wife.

Bond struggled, valiantly keeping his young charge from reaching her mother all the while giving Twilight desperate pleas for aid. The dog was big enough to block the door at the expense of being the girl’s punching bag. Anya, while being so little, packed a punch.

Her voice was garbled in his mind, behind several layers as if he was watching her from beneath an ocean of tears. And yet he could understand her, decipher her words, her fears. He could understand the simple want that she so begged to hold.

“Mama!”

“Anya.”

His body easily engulfed hers, his arms picking her up effortlessly as though her flailing was nothing but the gentlest winds. Snot and tears covered her puffy, reddened face; the hem of her nightgown torn from her resistance against Bond’s hold.

The sobs only continued, the intensity of it increasing the more she struggled against her father. The sound of it was grating to his ears, razor sharp that cut him in such depths that even he never found. He wanted a world where children never cried, did he not? And yet this child—his child—tore him to shreds.

“I want mama.”

“I know.” His large hand petted the back of her head, that bubblegum pink hair that Yor absolutely adored was a mess of tangles. “But mama’s hurt right now. I don’t want you to see that.”

“But she’s my mama.” Her voice was thick and slurred as her sobs died down into slight hiccups. She clung to him, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I want to see mama.”

He didn’t speak, not for a while. Didn’t know if he could speak the right words to her.

Twilight wanted Anya to see her mother, too. But not like this. Her mother was always smiling, always laughing. She shouldn’t see her mother broken and in pain. So he wouldn’t let her.

With a slight nudge to her forehead, Twilight looked deep into those emerald eyes of hers as a smile forced its way onto his face. “I’ll take good care of mama, okay? But you have to be good so I can focus on Yor, yeah? I have to make sure she’s okay.”

There was still disbelief in her eyes. Fear.

It hurt.

“Papa won’t let mama die, right? You won’t hurt mama?”

The ball of fear that threatened to burst out of him lodged itself into his throat, rendering him speechless. Of course he wouldn’t do something so drastic. Yor was crucial to Strix, was crucial to the success of the mission, was crucial to the survival of this fake family.

But he had his doubts.

He only saw a glint of it in her bedroom, but Twilight would recognize that weapon anywhere. Stilettos. Long with decent heft, the barrel shape leading to a ring at the end that he was sure would cause serious bludgeoning damage if used with enough speed and strength.

Considering how his ribs still hurt like a bitch from the fight he had five nights ago, the assailant definitely had the speed and strength to pull it off. Thorn Princess. A woman he once thought was the work of fiction. He didn’t expect to come across one of Ostania’s best in any of his missions.

It was a close call, far closer than any encounter that he’s had before. He could still remember those slender arms that closed in on his neck, those supple hands that gripped the side of his head, could remember how the sharp scent of roses and citrus pierced his nasal cavity.

It would’ve been so easy, so ridiculously easy, for that woman to snap his neck. From how she nearly broke his jaw just by tapping it, he knew that she had the necessary power to break him in half.

But she didn’t. Twilight didn’t understand why she froze, why she stopped. He was already prone, already in her clutches without a weapon, without any strength left to defend himself. But she stopped and let him go without much of a word.

It baffled him still, even days later. What was the point? He was the only one left alive, a loose thread. Was she called off? Was he not part of her mission?

He didn’t get to see her face beneath the low light. She was mindful of being seen, it seemed. It was odd, if what Franky’s stories said were true. Nobody knew what Thorn Princess looked like because no one lived to tell the tale.

Twilight should have known, should have taken the necessary steps to know who his assailant was. Should have brought it up to Handler and continued with protocol.

There was a shadow of a feeling deep inside his mind, his soul. A feeling that he beat down like his life depended on it. Instinct screamed at him to deal with the problem. Emotion grabbed him by the throat and told him to shut the fuck up.

It made sense in hindsight. Yor’s superhuman strength, her specific knowledge of human anatomy, her unnatural resistance to substances that would normally be fatal to a civilian—attributes that he shrugged off as her just being endearingly peculiar. As to why he didn’t connect them to her being a stone cold killer was beyond him.

He could try to think his way out of it. Heaven knows he’s become a master of spinning his brain into tangles just so he could wrap his mind around the woman he’d been calling his wife.

Not this time.

He should have handled her the moment he saw those stilettos, should have disposed of her while he had the upper hand. She was already in a weakened state. He should be able to take her on without much of a fuss. She needed to be gone. Her profession—her existence—is detrimental to the mission and should have been eliminated as soon as possible. He should have finished the job.

But he didn’t.

Handler would ask him why he didn’t do it. He’d just say he was frazzled and didn’t have time to think about it. But Handler wouldn’t know.

Shouldn’t know.

But Anya… Why is she asking him these things? He just figured it all out a mere few minutes ago. He knew the child was perceptive but surely she wasn’t that accurate all the time?

And how did she know? Did he slip somewhere and tipped her off? Was he more compromised than he already was?

He took her hand, held them gently in his. “Of course not.” He won’t. “I’ll make sure mama’s alright.” He will. “I’ll take care of Yor.” Will he?

Her lower lip trembled. His heart broke into a million pieces.

Twilight bounced Anya on his hip, his forehead nudging hers once more before pressing his cheek over the top of her head. He would have to make it up to her tomorrow if he wanted to make sure Yor stays breathing by first light. Maybe he can get Franky to watch over her for a few days until everything gets sorted… for better or for worse.

“Papa.”

“I’m sorry, darling.”

“I’m not leaving, papa.”

His eyes widened. Were his intentions that easy to read? Damn it, Twilight. He shook his head as he headed towards her bedroom. He didn’t have the energy to have this conversation right now, didn’t have the energy to take care of both of them.

He was a failure. A spy of his caliber should have had the skills to competently accommodate both a child and a severely injured woman with ease. A good father would have had the ability to soothe his child in distress. A loving husband is supposed to be able to take care of his spouse without falter.

None of those applied to him.

“You need to get some sleep, okay?” He opened the door to the child’s room, waited for Bond to step in and plop his thick rump on the dog bed they purchased months before. The initial dregs of fatigue were settling in his system. Just a little more, he decided. Just until she’s asleep. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

And with a light kiss onto her forehead, gentle hands tucking her beneath the plush covers, Twilight gave his child one last tired smile before dragging himself back to Yor’s room before the girl could protest any further.

The bedroom door to Yor’s room closed with a soft click, the sloshing of water in the basin he carried the only sound that reached his ears before reverting back to the still quiet, the weight of it dragging him towards the floor so much that he just wanted to slide down and fall into an unconscious bliss. Maybe Yor would slit his throat before he wakes. That prospect wasn’t all that unappealing.

The bed dipped slightly when he sat at the corner, not too far from Yor’s head. The shivering eased into a slight tremble, yet her breathing still hasn’t evened out.

She looked so different now, not at all like the assassin that almost put an end to his existence a few nights ago. In the months that they’ve been living together, Twilight never saw her this fragile, this broken. He didn’t want to think about how much he detested seeing her like this.

The cool towel that he damped her face with seemed to have helped. Her breathing slowed, hopefully to a state where she could sleep comfortably. They still have fever reducers in their medicine cabinet, thankfully. He didn’t think he could leave the two alone even for the duration of the short trip to the nearby pharmacy.

He could get Franky to run errands for him, but another person in the know when he himself was still in the dark with a large chunk of the situation at hand was trouble. There were already too many factors that could jeopardize everything more than it already is. He couldn’t afford to let Franky become one of the loose ends he has to snip.

He sighed. This would be a problem for tomorrow.

Yor’s hands were small inside his, easily engulfed by his larger one as he cleaned each digit with damp paper towels before wiping the rest of her supple skin with a cloth to cool her down. Her hair was still matted with blood which would be difficult to clean without a proper wash, but he didn’t want to carry her to the bathtub in this state lest he wanted her to accidentally drown. He’d just wait for her to wake before he could clean the rest.

They’re going to have a long talk once she’s strong enough for conversation. He’d have to confront her, but didn’t know how to approach it. Surely just coming up to her and saying “Hey Yor, why were you half dead when I came home last night?” was not a good opener for a discussion.

She deserved better than that, deserved better from him. He didn’t know her reasons for doing the things she does, but she must have a good cause for it. If he’s learned one thing about her in the past few months, it’s that she never does things for selfish reasons.

But how could they move past this? If Strix ends, how could he entrust her with Anya’s care? Both of their professions would lead to the endangerment of the child. Her attachment to him just adds to the danger—

He doubled over as a searing pain ruptured at his side, his eyes dotted with flashing orbs as a burning sensation coursed through his body. A hand rested on his hip almost lovingly, the blade of a pen knife—his pen knife—glinted along the long slice against his waist.

She laid there staring at him, tendrils of her dark hair tumbling over a pale, pale face and slacked mouth, her head lulling to the side as clouded crimson eyes trained on him. Her left hand slowly, steadily retracted the blade.

“…my husband?”

He sat still, his right hand inching to where the blade used to be and used it as a clamp. His eyes never left hers. “Yor?”

“What..” she swallowed, breath still labored. “What did…you do to my husband?”

“Yor I—,”

Twilight lurched back, nearly crashing to the ground as her right hand shot up in a clawed position. She was trying to sit up now, left arm trembling as it supported her weight. Her long, long black hair fell down her shoulder in a waterfall of twists and tangles, the length of it covering half of her face.

There was a mistiness to her eyes, eyes that looked at him and past him. Seeing and unseeing. There was fury there, hot and raging, but the underlying sense of confusion didn’t escape his perception.

She was searching, eyes piercing, for something he couldn’t quite discern, couldn’t quite comprehend. Those eyes that saw through him, reaching, reaching down into the depths of his consciousness looking for the husband she yearned for.

He didn’t dare to move quickly, didn’t dare agitate her predator instinct far more than it already was. He didn’t step back when her leg swung over the bed, her frame teetering to the side just as her foot made contact with the floor.

The pen light was no longer in her grasp, her fingers too limp to grasp the weapon properly.

“Yor, I’m here.” He stood his ground, an easy-going expression slipping onto his face as he raised his hands to show he was unarmed and not a threat. Her eyes flitted to them momentarily before having them settle back to his face.

Her body swayed, his muscles instinctively moving forward to catch her as she fell.

Big mistake.

Yor’s head snapped up the moment his arm was a mere touch away, her arms reaching up, up, grasped his arms and tugged. Though the lethargy that plagued her entirety was still evident, her fingers clamped onto his forearm, digging deep into him as she used him to heft her up. Her mist covered eyes never left his pained ones.

“What did you do to my husband?”

Her voice came at him at a hiss, strained, fatigued. Furious. Using his frame, she hauled herself up so quickly he took a step back, wincing when her fingers only dug further into his arm. Her face was so close to his, so much that he could feel every desperate breath come in and out of her lips.

One hand still up, Twilight used the other to touch the hand that was gripping him, soothed. Smiled through the throbbing agony. “Yor, it’s me. It’s me, yeah? I’m here.” Taking a chance, he gently pried those fingers from his skin. Linked his own digits with hers as she sucked in a breath.

The single visible eye watched, judged.

“Why are you lying to me?”

The immediate bloom of pain hit his chest in less than an instant, the full strength of her kick sending him flying straight into the wall with a loud thud. White splotches of light dotted his vision as his body slid down to the floor, the strong, sharp thrums of suffering overcoming whatever exhaustion he was sporting when he came home.

Yor stood where she was, body continually swaying side to side and yet never seemed to lose her balance. He didn’t even see it, didn’t see the way her leg reared back, didn’t see the way the light of her eyes switched from anger to desperate longing.

She took a step, then another, and another, and within the blink of an eye she towered over him, those long tresses of hair glancing over the skin of his face. Her whole body was shaking now, the full expanse of her skin vibrating with the chaos of an earthquake.

“What did you do to Loid, you Westalis spy?”

Ah.

Shit.

The crash of her fist against the wall thundered against his ears, chips and wooden debris falling onto his hair just as he scrambled to sit up. Her fist lay embedded in the wall, rivulets of red dripping down like a sorrowful cascade as her other hand laid on the vertical surface to support her weight. Sweat trickled down from her forehead to her nape, disappearing beneath her soiled night clothes.

Her forehead rested on the wall, lips moving in a steady chant of Loid Forger and Anya’s names.

His gun felt heavy in its holster, the freezing cold of the metal adding weight to his already sinking resolve. She was out to kill him, out to end him. He had to end her first. Kill or be killed. Such is the way of the world, of war.

They were at war.

The pistol he carried slipped into his left hand as the other held his injured side. Just one shot, optimally to a vital organ to put an end to this quickly. He’s killed countless people many times in cold blood before. These hands he has were stained with the blood that he’ll never be able to remove. It shouldn’t be difficult, shouldn’t make him hesitate. This was for the good of the world. For the success of Operation Strix. For the mission. For peace.

For peace.

Raise the gun. Take aim. Fire.

Papa won’t let mama die, right? You won’t hurt mama?

The gun clattered to the ground, the sound of metal against wood the only sound between them in this crypt of a sanctum.

He couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t bear the thought of it.

Didn’t move when Yor stumbled towards him. Didn’t so much as flinch when at last her fist connected with his face. Only muttered her name as iron coated his mouth. Only whispered Yor when he caught her arm with his bloodied hand and maneuvered her back, pushing her chest down, his elbow and knee pinning her to the bed with his weight.

“Yor, please.” His voice was low, a soft plea. “Please listen to me.”

“—husband… my daughter—.”

“We’re here, Yor. Please, come out of this.”

The heel of her foot rammed into his hip, sending the breath rushing out of him. She struggled like a caged animal, reaching back so her nails and teeth raked at his bare skin whilst she struggled out of his grasp. The strangled noises coming out of her mouth shredded his heart to pieces.

“Yor—Yor, stop—!”

Twilight doubled over when her elbow rammed against his ribcage so hard he almost fell into unconsciousness, yet still his arms held on. Just hold on. Don’t let her hurt herself any further. Blood seeped from her bandages, staining both his and her with red.

“Let… go!”

“Yor, please—!”

She bucked, loosening his hold just enough for her to ram the back of her head to his face. The hot, hot pain of it momentarily distracting him from the task at hand which she used to slither out and whirl around to land a sharp backhanded slap against his cheek.

He stumbled back, the taste of iron overwhelming him as his sense of equilibrium spun out of hand. But he still has her in his grip, not letting her go, not letting her leave. Even when she struggled against him, even when she looked for the child that wasn’t from her womb, even when she called out for the husband he desperately wanted to be but couldn’t provide.

“What did…” Her voice rasped, so unlike her usual melodic voice that he’s come to treasure in the months that they’ve lived together. “What did you do to Loid? What did you do to Loid?”

She jabbed, slower, much slower, allowing him to grab her fist and spin her around once more, pressing her back against his chest as his other hand coiled around her shoulder from the underside of her arms.

“Listen to me—please, Yor.”

Yor choked back a sob, writhing, kicking—anything that she could do to move past him. “I smelled him on you. I smelled—Loid. Loid, Loid, Loid—what did you do to Loid?”

A shadow fell on him as realization struck.

That time she let him go. Her distance the past few days.

Oh.

Oh, Yor.

He let his head rest on top of hers, closed his eyes and let her tire herself out, let himself bask in the silence that descended upon them both.

Of course she would know it was him. Of all the people that would recognize him like that, of course it would be Yor. Yor, ever vigilant, ever caring. He was a fool to think that he would be the only one who’d realize the other’s secret.

A minute passed. And another. She’s stopped her struggling now, accepted her defeat as she succumbed to the fever. She stood with half lidded eyes staring into nothing. With a little nudge, he moved them a few steps to the vanity, making sure she had a full view of the both of them even in her current state.

They were a bloody mess.

His suit was ripped from when she stabbed him. Droplets of blood dotted the green of his suit jacket. He didn't know how much of them were his.

She wasn’t any better. The injuries that she bandaged so efficiently were torn. The bleeding has stopped but her nightgown was stained and unsalvageable. Hair that was still mussed and matted covered half of her face.

With a gentle hand he reached up, tucked those strands behind her ear as he nudged her closer to the mirror.

“It’s us, Yor.” Voice as soft as a desperate orison, he implored her to look at their reflection. She blinked several times—trying to focus, he presumed, sucked in a breath after a few moments after. Her voice barely an utterance.

“Twilight?”

“Yes.”

“…Loid?”

“Yes.”

Her legs gave way, dragging the both of them down, down to the cold, hardwood of the floor as an anguished howl erupted from her. Loud, piercing, the pointed spears of agony impaling every piece of emotion that he so desperately tried to suppress. It was horrible, it was painful, the devastation of it leaving him unable to speak.

And yet she turned, trained those misty eyes on him once more. Gone was the anger, the vengeance, and remained the face of a broken woman.

“You’re bleeding.” She cupped his face, bloodied and ruined hands rubbing against the already forming bruise. “Loid, I made you bleed.”

“Mama?”

Both turned, backs rigid as Anya’s tiny frame peeked from behind the partially opened door. Bright viridian eyes wide, lower lip quivering.

She wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t supposed to see. He should have locked it, goddammit. Should have made sure she stayed in her room.

“Mama!” The girl rushed over, arms out in a desperate attempt to reach her mother and was barely fast enough to escape Bond’s clutches.

“Anya, no!”

All three stopped, gaped at the sudden outburst that he knew didn’t come from him.

Yor’s head was pressed against his shoulder now as she shook her head, imploring the girl to stop and move away.

“Mama? Mama’s hurt.” There was an accusatory tone in that sentence. Twilight didn’t know if it was directed at him or at her own young self.

The child took a step closer, a cry erupting from her when her mother once again halted her. They were only an arm’s length away, and yet the chasm between their divide seemed so far, impossible to breach.

Yor reached out, one arm outstretched. Long, dainty fingers pushing Anya’s bright pink hair from her face just like what he did to his wife moments earlier.

“Sweetheart, please.” She rubbed Anya’s cheek, clearing away the teardrops that seemed to fall for eternity, before covering the child’s eyes with that bloodied hand of hers. “Please, don’t look.”

And Anya cried.

Wailed hard as her tiny hands gripped her mother’s arm, wishing for her to be held. That little form of hers pelted by massive tremors of unadulterated anguish as the desperate plea of a child called for her mama over and over and over again.

But she didn’t look.

Didn’t look.

“Anya.” His voice was distant even to his own ears. His own bones felt like lead, the fatigue finally settling in over him as the period of danger has now passed. Like Yor, he reached out as well before caressing his daughter’s hair, her face. Wiped more of the tears as his wife did. “Anya, go to your room for now, please? Papa needs to take care of mama now, okay?”

At the child’s angry indignation, Twilight felt Yor lean out, pulling Anya into her arms, turning her body around so she wouldn’t have her bloodied parents within her vision.

No one spoke. Anya’s mournful cries have died down to soft whimpers as she settled herself against her mother’s embrace, the ever faithful Bond laying down at her heels. The soft bap, bap, bap of his massive tail sliced through the suffocating atmosphere, blanketing all of them in warmth and safety.

Eternity in that state would have been bliss. His wife pressed against his chest, their daughter in her mother’s arms—Twilight wouldn’t have minded to spend the rest of eternity like that.

And yet the lulling of Yor’s head and the ever increasing heat emanating from her skin didn’t escape his attention. The emotional rollercoaster has momentarily passed. The physical toll took full effect once the adrenaline faded.

“Anya,” he whispered just enough for the girl to hear. Her head popped up, the way her sleep-ridden green eyes blinked at full speed to shrug off the drowsiness away elicited a chuckle from him. “Anya, go to sleep. Mama’s really sick.”

She pouted, burying herself more into her mother’s side. “No.”

A sigh erupted from his lips. She really was a stubborn child. But then again, he couldn’t exactly blame her. If he were in her place, he was sure he would do the same. Perhaps even a little unrulier than she is.

“Alright.” He tugged at her hand, smiled when she turned to face him. Red splotches dotted her face, her eyes and cheeks puffy from all the tears. “Go to your room while I clean Yor. I’ll get you when we’re done, okay?”

Anya stared, eyes narrowing, searching for any lie, before conceding when she found none. “Promise?” At his affirmative, she stood up. With one last grip on her mother’s hand, his little girl padded out of the room with Bond in tow. At the sound of the click of a door, Twilight breathed easier for the first time that night.

“Yor.” He nudged her a little, lightly tapped her arm as her eyes fluttered awake.

“Mm?”

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Mm.”

She offered no resistance when he picked her up, both of them letting out a soft chuckle when he almost stumbled out the door.

The trip to the bathroom was uneventful. Yor was conscious enough to be able to strip her clothing and sit on the stool while he set up the bath. She was holding up well. He thought she’d be more flustered than this, would be more shy, but she was comfortable enough to sit there in the nude with only his suit jacket keeping her from getting cold.

It may have been the exhaustion, the fever, maybe both but Twilight liked to think that it was because she was enjoying his company even after the events that transpired a mere few minutes ago..

Without so much as a murmur, he helped her onto the tub, careful to not accidentally let her slip while dragging the stool to the edge and taking her place on it. She was compliant towards his instructions, giving him the slightest of hums of affirmation whenever he asked her to move a particular way.

So she sat, the water submerging half of her already. Several cuts and scars of varying ages littered her body, most of which healed up wonderfully. And yet there were those that prodded him like a scorching iron poker straight to his heart.

A deep gash several inches long sat over the swell of her left hip, still fresh, still new. A long wound from what he judged was a blade lay atop the curve of her chest, one end of it nicking the top of her bosom. Hundreds more, some small, some larger, some hidden by her bruises, most already faded, littered her pale, pale skin.

Twilight already knew that Yor was beautiful.

And yet he never realized she could be sublime.

For months he’s suppressed the urge to touch, to hold, to run his hair over her long tresses. He wasn’t supposed to get attached, wasn’t supposed to hold any feelings—but Yor. Yor. The woman who took down a hundred layers of the barrier he so desperately built over the last twenty years.

Twilight already accepted that he would never be able to resist Anya. He didn’t anticipate that he’d be so utterly unraveled by Yor.

So he gave in.

Gave in to the urge, to the siren’s call of family. He was no match for them, and the more he fought the more he slipped. He needed this—them—and it frustrated him that he only realized it the moment he almost lost her.

“Loid?”

“Hm?”

“What are you thinking about?”

His long fingers massaged her scalp, his nails lightly scrubbing the blood away. With the showerhead sending in a gentle, steady stream of warm water overhead, he gradually teased the tangles of her hair with a small, plastic comb he often carried in his back pocket.

He knew she had her eyes trained on the mirror, watching him, waiting for an answer as she did her best to scrub the grime away. So he stopped, sat back, used his thumb and forefinger to tilt her face to his direction. Made sure she was looking directly into his eyes.

“You devastate me, Yor.”

She didn’t speak, didn’t move. But her eyes never left his. She was close, so close, and yet he was afraid to take that chance, afraid to push in case she recoiled.

He didn’t need to.

She didn’t take his hand, didn’t touch like he hoped she would, but merely leaned her weight to the right, her body pressing against the warmed porcelain of the tub. Perched her chin to his shoulder.

“What are we gonna do, Loid?”

It was a question he asked himself over and over again. What will they do?

He closed his eyes as he pressed his forehead to hers. Nudged. Exhaled.

“I don’t know what to do, Yor.”

The sound of water dripping echoed within the bathroom, the steady stream of warmth flowing over the length of her left shoulder. He watched her drain the soiled water, opting to just bask beneath the showerhead.

“Is this mission important, Loid?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes met his once more, the deep, deep crimson that he so often gets lost in dulled in the slightest. Smiled.

“Then kill me.”

The hand that was toying with her hair jerked, the other holding the edge of the tub in a death grip. She looked so calm, so serene, eyes sorrowed that he could almost hear the cracks forming within his heart. And yet she smiled at him.

“Don’t say things like that, Yor. Please.”

Her gaze never left him, never wavered. “I might jeopardize this… whatever this is, Loid. You know that.”

“To hell with it.”

His eyes fluttered when she touched his face, leaning into her touch when her fingers trailed water against his bruised cheek. Her skin was flushed, her actions still sluggish. Yet she gave him a comfort he knew he didn’t deserve.

“I made you bleed.”

“You didn’t know it was me.”

“Loid.”

“Yes?”

Her thumb rubbed the crest of his cheek, felt her fingers press on the hallow beneath his eye. It was a new sensation for him—the way his body reacted to her presence, to her touch. There was a steady gravity around her that seemed to constantly tug at him, pull him towards her side. He didn’t know why he lasted so long resisting it.

“I’m sorry, Loid.”

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not.”

There was sadness in her eyes, a quiet apology that turned his resolve to ash and dust. The haze was nearly gone. The confusion that was slowly being overtaken by clarity. He took her hand. Squeezed.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

He rinsed her off, toweled her down. Picked her back up in his arms swaddled like an infant against her indignant murmurs and carried her off to his bedroom.

“It’s faster this way.”

“My bedroom’s that way, Loid.”

“There’s a hole in the wall, darling. It’s a mess.”

“Hmph.”

They bickered more while he treated her wounds, insisting that she not use her fingers any more than she has to. He had her sit on the bed while he kneeled down and applied balms, bandaged them down. Thankfully, most were superficial wounds, with only a few giving him actual concern. But Yor didn’t seem to be bothered by them, no. It was the fever that he was most worried about, but she was taking it in stride. He didn’t know if she should.

“You’re holding better than I thought you would.”

“I’m trying so hard not to put my face in my hands right now.”

He mocked up a frown, raised a brow. “Why.”

The flush of her cheeks deepened, and he was sure it wasn’t the fever this time.

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s adorable, more like.”

“Loid!”

Those fingers twitched. He didn’t suppress the grin.

“You’re so forward right now.” There was a whine in her voice, the slur of it returning. She would be crashing soon.

His eyes softened, humor replaced with content as he perched his chin over her good knee. “My priorities shifted—has been shifting. I’ve already wasted so much time. I guess the thought of handing you over was too much for me to bear.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. The way her fingers carded through his hair, the gradual warmth it trailed on his scalp, was all he needed to feel.

He stood up from his perch, once again nudging her forehead with his. “Go to sleep, Yor.”

“I will if you do.”

Twilight flashed a grin, playful, as he grabbed two of his white shirts and two pairs of sweatpants. “You’re still naked, darling.”

“Loid Forger!”

The chuckle that resounded from him surprised him. But he didn’t hide it. Not anymore.

He handed her the first pair, laughing as he avoided the slap when he offered to help her put the pants on before making his merry way to the bathroom.

He showered quickly, not wanting to leave Yor alone for too long. The injuries he sustained weren’t bad. He’ll be bruised by the morrow, but nothing he’s not used to. The stab wound did need a little more tending, but that was easily sorted out.

Anya was already fast asleep. His child swaddled in her covers with Chimera and Penguin flanking her like royal guards. The slow stomping of Bond’s tail was the only indication he was awake. The little girl was easily in his arms while making sure he at least had Chimera with them before whispering to Bond. “Come on, boy. Let’s sleep with mama.”

She didn’t wake when he passed the threshold to his bedroom, which pleased him. Yor already situated herself on the bed, a towel between her hair and the pillow. He shook his head when she moved to sit up.

The smile she gave was small, sleepy, as she stretched her arms to take Anya from his hold, snuggling the child close to her bosom as both adults watched Bond get situated on the carpet before turning the light off except for the lamp beside the bed.

The rest of the night was uneventful. Soft murmurs, small touches, quiet chuckles. This was a comfort that was foreign to him, a comfort that he never understood but could never fathom living without again. For years he spent hiding, separating, shielding himself from the terrors of relationships. This was a welcome change that he will fight for.

This was his family. His light, his life.

He’s lost so much time, wasted so many moments distancing himself from them. Never again. He’ll never let them go ever again.

He gazed at her, taking all of her in, burning her visage into memory as his fingers danced with hers. Caring. Connecting. Cherishing.

With a tug of her fingers, he pushed his head to the pillow. Smiled.

“In sickness and in health.”

There was a light in her eyes. Bright. Joyous. She returned his smile.

“To love and to cherish.”

And with a combined breath, they murmured the vow that will always be. The promise of life and love that will hold true forevermore.

In a chaste symbolism of holy matrimony, husband and wife held each other close, held the child they so dearly adored between them as they laid beneath the soft glow of the moonlight that streamed through from the bedroom window.

“Until death do us part.”