Archive of Our Own ^beta

Steam fogged the usually spotless bathroom mirror, as the hot, damp air permeated the room.

This was soon corrected by a hand towel wiping across the polished surface. Through the reflective glass, worn blue eyes stared forward. Damp blonde hair cascaded loosely down his face – only to be swiftly swept back with a calloused hand. Dark circles were etched underneath the man’s eyes – an obvious sign that the day had taken its toll on him.

He put on a smile for the mirror, even if it did not quite reach his eyes.

His mouth reset into a thin, emotionless line just a moment later.

It was okay. His family was asleep. Loid Forger needn’t show himself tonight. There was no need to keep up appearances for the next few hours.

His name was Twilight, Westalis’ greatest spy.

He’d been trained to remain calm and collected in any situation, whether staring down death, or deranged tennis duos.

And he was so damn tired.

A grimace flashed across the spy’s face, and he rolled his shoulder. Twilight turned around, tired feet lazily dragging over the cold tile floor – the chilly sensation just a tad too reminiscent of the tingle in his fingers when he and Nightfall inhaled that toxin earlier.

Twilight faced his back to the mirror, glancing over his shoulder to survey the damage.

His grimace only grew grimmer.

The spattering of black and blue bloomed across his skin, over his shoulder. It drew a stark contrast to the mostly pink flush he’d gotten from the hot shower.

Bulletproof vests protected all the important internal organs. They were thickest, and most protective around his center mass. Around his shoulder?

Twilight tapped the bruise once, an irritable scowl cutting across his face.

Not very protective around that non-vital area. Even if those goons had only been using rubber bullets, they’d been shot from damn sniper rifles. It was a hell of a lot of kinetic energy for his vest to try and displace where it was thinnest. They were no joke, and the nasty bruises were a reminder of that. If he hadn’t spotted the scope’s glint in time, Nightfall would have fractured a rib or two – and that would have jeopardized the operation.

All for a false alarm. A bombshell to reignite a dead man’s feud with his dead wife.

What a joke.

A sigh, and Twilight shook his head.

No, it was as Sylvia had said – the fact there was no bombshell to reignite the war between Ostania and Westalis at all was a victory in and of itself.

And the only casualties of the day were Nightfall’s composure, Twilight’s heavily bruised shoulder, and that poor tennis ball Yor had sliced and diced with her racket. All in a day’s work.

Twilight ceased inspecting the splotches of bruising on his shoulder. He’d done enough grumbling to himself; it was time to get some rest. God knew it was only a matter of time before his handler sent out a request for contact again.

Tugging on a pair of dark pants, Twilight had to take a moment to turn his vacant stare to the room around him. His eyes flicked from surface to surface, scanning for his usual grey long sleeved shirt. With mounting annoyance, it became clear: he’d forgotten to bring a shirt into the bathroom.

A grumble, and a muttered, “you’re losing your touch,” slipped from his mouth. The day’s fatigue had become debilitating. It was a miracle he was still standing at all after that ridiculous tennis tournament.

No matter. Operation Go Back to His Room Without Being Detected couldn’t possibly be that easy to mess up. Anya was fast asleep, and Yor likely was as well; she had seemed tired earlier. She’d been playing tennis in the park with Anya and Bond, after all.

Twilight’s hand paused on the doorknob.

Now that he thought about it, Yor seemed particularly listless tonight after she’d bested Nightfall – a feat that was as impressive as it was a little stunning. Twilight would have thought that Yor’s little achievement would have kept the wind in her sales all night. Instead, she had looked quite dejected when Twilight had last seen her, sitting on the couch, legs tucked up beneath her as she hugged a pillow.

Maybe Yor was worried that besting Nightfall would have a negative impact on his work at the hospital. Maybe Yor was jea –

No, no. The marriage was a sham, and any feelings Yor had for him were purely for show. That’s simply the way it was, and the way it had to be. They both knew what they were signing up for. Yor’s earlier melancholia tonight was probably just a result of giving herself a hard time, as she tended to do. The woman tried to hold herself to sometimes unreasonable standards for a wife and a mother, and that was admirable of her – but she often needed the reminder that she was already doing more than enough.

Maybe he could take Yor out for another date, to assure her that all was well.

For the good of Operation Strix, of course. World peace hung on the balance of maintaining his home life.

With a self-assured nod to nobody in particular, Twilight opened the door.

In the darkness of the living room, the sofa cushion beneath her was warm, as was the pillow she kept closely tucked against her person. Though, she supposed, everything felt warm only because of the alcohol pumping in her veins.

No, no – she was being a tad ridiculous. She was only one and a half glasses of wine deep. Barely enough to slur her speech.

Maybe.

She didn’t want to push her luck.

But she probably wouldn’t have to. Anya was all tuckered out after their long, active day in the park. Loid had seemed exhausted as well; it was rare that he suggested ordering takeout, rather than whipping up a meal himself.

She bit her lip, hand tightening around her glass of wine.

Of course, if she’d just been a better wife, they wouldn’t even need to order food in. She could have simply prepared a warm, homely meal for Loid and Anya.

Maybe that was why Loid spent so much time with that Fiona person today. Maybe Fiona knew how to cook, and didn’t need to take classes in secret just to learn a single dish.

She ran a hand through her messy hair, knocking against the misaligned headband.

Her name was Yor Forger, codenamed Thorn Princess. She was an assassin.

For the sake of providing for her little brother, keeping him carefree, and making the world a better place for him and her new family to live in – she was a contract killer; one of the very best, having applied her lethal skills from a young age.

And growing up as an assassin did not prepare her to be a wife and a mother.

Yor tilted the cool glass to her lips, taking another big sip of wine. The heat bloomed in her mouth, lighting a trail of fire down her throat. It dulled the ache in her chest, but only in the slightest.

What was she going to do with herself? Loid had that young, beautiful Fiona – a far superior tennis player than she was. What was one victory against her? It was a fluke – one that Fiona had taken poorly. Yor never liked upsetting anyone, especially someone who Loid may be friends with.

If they even were just friends to begin with.

Yor was doomed. This new life of hers with Loid, Anya, and even Bond was doomed.

Loid was going to divorce her, kick her out onto the curb, and marry Fiona.

And then what?

Back to coming home from work to an empty, barely-furnished one bedroom apartment, with nobody but the shadows to greet her.

Back to eating cold takeout alone on her sofa.

Back to Yuri’s endless worrying about her difficulty in finding a man. (Though his antagonistic treatment of Loid wasn’t much better).

Back to living from contract to contract, kill to kill, with nothing but her coworkers’ chatter in city hall to kill the monotony.

She would no longer see Bond’s big, goofy face as the overgrown pup tried to avoid her cooking.

She would no longer feel Anya curled up beside her, resting after a long day of playing together.

She would no longer see that little smile Loid gave her whenever she came home from work – that smile Yor could swear Loid gave only to her – and even if it was a sham, even if it was all just part of their disguise, it made the butterflies in her stomach go ballistic anyway.

Oh, and the SSS would detain her on the allegations of espionage soon thereafter. Being a single woman in her late twenties was suspicious, and all that.

But, that horrible future need not happen if Yor simply… removed Fiona from the equation.

Yor shook her head in sharp motions, causing the dark room around her to begin spinning.

No, she couldn’t do that. She never hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it.

Even if Fiona was trying to steal Loid from her.

Yor drained the last of her wine, finding herself still too sober for this line of thinking. She set the glass down on the coffee table, and her hand bumped into the wine bottle, only to find it already empty.

This was what she got for not stocking up on wine, and beginning her pity party with a half-empty bottle. She couldn’t even be a proper alcoholic, let alone a proper wife or mother.

Besides, who was she kidding?

Loid wasn’t Yor’s for her to be able to say Fiona was stealing him. The marriage was a sham, entered into for their own self-interests.

That’s simply the way it was, and the way it had to be. Any of Loid’s feelings for her were fabricated, and Yor had to remind herself of this. His feelings for Fiona, on the other hand…

The softest squeak resounded from behind Yor, and even in her inebriated state, the quiet sound set her alarm bells off. Her head snapped to peek over her shoulder, and her entire body shifted – preparing her to pounce if need be.

It was Loid padding into the hallway on bare feet, wearing nothing but his dark pants, and a towel slung around his neck.

Yor’s throat dried up.

Loid’s shock mirrored the expression Yor could only guess was on her own face.

“Ah, Yor.” Loid cracked a sheepish smile. “What are you doing in the dark? I thought you were asleep.”

“Roid,” Yor slurred, then cleared her throat. A hand came up to press to her lips as the heat pooled in her cheeks. She tried again, “Loid.”

They held eye contact for a long moment, before Yor’s non-existent self-control got the better of her. Her red eyes dipped down, taking in the sight of his chiseled, muscular torso, illuminated by the bathroom light. Her mouth acted with a mind of its own. “You’re shirtless!”

“I’m aware of that,” Loid chuckled, waving a hand as if to dismiss it. “I was just on my way to get changed.”

The sight of a shirtless Loid Forger was not one Yor spent much time visualizing, but now – now, that seemed likely to change.

Yet even as her tummy rumbled, her heart beat a mile a minute, and her cheeks turned red as a ripe tomato – she looked closer, and soon the butterflies in her stomach faltered, and dropped deader than her clients. Yor’s breath left her body, and her heart ached.

From all the way across the hallway – even in the dark – Yor could see the scars crisscrossing Loid’s entire torso. The faint, pale marks stood out against the pinkish tint of his skin – likely still warm from his shower. They varied in shape and size – some being fine, thin lines, and others jagged and rough in their appearance. Their color – the exact shade of paleness contrasting Loid’s healthy pallor – hinted at their ages, with most appearing to be years and years old.

“Well, uh – I,” Loid rubbed a hand to the back of his neck, his smile tight and awkward. Yor was vaguely aware that her staring had been the cause of Loid’s discomfort. But the way the muscles of his chest moved when he rubbed his neck was distracting her too much to stop ogling. “I’ll go to bed now. Good night, Yor.”

Loid shut off the bathroom light, then turned to his door, giving Yor an eyeful of his equally chiseled and equally scarred back. Yet what her sharp eyes locked onto was the terrible bruising running all over the back of the man’s left shoulder.

The gasp slipped out of her lips of its own accord.

Yor was vaulting over the sofa’s backrest, and stumbling forward before she knew it. “Roid!”

With his hand on his bedroom’s doorknob, Loid paused. He craned his head to look at her, brows raising up in question. “What’s wrong?”

“Wha – What do you mean,” Yor sputtered. “What do you mean what’sh wrong?” Her hand shot out to point at his shoulder, while her shaky legs carried her forward. “You’re hurt!”

Slowly, Loid’s eyes followed the trail of her finger to his shoulder. A beat passed, and Loid released the doorknob. He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, this? That’s a funny story, actually.”

Yor’s brows pitched together in a frown. “That bruise doesn’t look funny to me.”

Neither do all those scars.

The questions pinged throughout Yor’s mind, faster than she could keep up with.

Had he gotten that bruise from the tournament?

Was that Fiona woman involved?

(A latent fire in her veins may have been reignited at the thought.)

Where had all those scars come from?

Was being a psychiatrist really that dangerous of a profession? Those patients on the night of Loid’s proposal had been quite vicious, but Yor had chalked that up to being more of a one-off thing. She never would have thought that so many of Loid’s patients were violent enough to cause him this much pain.

Yor stopped just an arm’s reach away – where her own hand came to hover in the air, stopping before she could put a hand on Loid’s bare shoulder. Her arm curled inward, where she could press her knuckles to her lips.

Loid’s hands slipped into his pockets, and he put on an air of nonchalance as he began, “Earlier at the tournament, I ran into one of my patients from the clinic.” A soft laugh, and Loid shook his head, his damp blonde hair swaying. “I thought he was happy to see me, but I was mistaken.”

Yor put one hand on the wall to steady herself. The worry leaked into her voice when she asked, “Did you have to do your concushive therapy on them?”

“I did,” Loid said, as his sheepish smile returned. “It was turning into an emergency, and I had to treat him quickly.”

Yor’s heart thundered against her chest as she looked up at Loid. How admirable the man was – always looking out for his patients, even if he was busy with –

“Did…” Yor’s lips hung open for a second, and her eyes fell to the wooden floor. “Did Fiona help you?”

Fiona was an associate from Loid’s work, so it stood to reason that she intervened. Yor was regretting even posing the question, but it had jumped out of her stupid mouth, and now she had to live with the answer that followed.

“She did.” Loid grinned wide. “It’s a good thing she was there, too. I don’t know what would have happened if Fiona hadn’t been there to help.” He set his hand back on the doorknob to his bedroom. “See, Yor – there’s no need to worry about me at all. I was in good hands tonight.”

Yor’s heart sank, and she lacked the resolve to pick her eyes up from where they’d been glued to the floor.

Yor had helped treat some of Loid’s patients before. Loid had even seemed pleased with her for the help, at the time. Had Fiona sent a patient flying as well, and gotten that delighted laugh from Loid?

Yor may as well kiss her family goodbye while she still had the chance.

“No need to worry, okay? Sleep well, Yor.” Loid offered a smile and turned the doorknob.

Yor’s hand landed on Loid’s, stopping him in his tracks. In the silence of the hallway – their hallway, in their home – Yor could hear Loid’s quiet intake of breath.

“Ash your…” Yor licked her lips, steadying the tremble in her slurring voice. “As your wife…”

Yor knew she was far from perfect. She knew that if you picked a homeless person off the street, they would probably be a better mother and wife to the Forger family. What more Fiona – someone Loid actually knew, and who could probably cook, and keep a neat household, and raise Anya right?

But for tonight – if only for this very moment – Fiona wasn’t here. She may be the perfect wife for Loid, but she wasn’t here to take care of him, and Yor was. She could help him now, and that had to count for something.

It had to.

“As your wife,” Yor repeated, and her voice grew firm as it picked up in volume. She tore her eyes up from the spot they’d been glaring at on the floor. She hurriedly traveled her gaze up Loid’s impressive physique, settling instead on his face. A flush was setting into his fair skin, giving his cheeks and nose a pinkish glow. His blue eyes bore into Yor’s, ever-patiently waiting for her to continue. Licking her lips, Yor told him, “It’s my duty to take care of you.”

Yor’s free hand rose to hover over Loid’s shoulder. When she finally drew the courage to land her hand on the bare skin of his shoulder, Yor pleaded, “Please, Loid. Let me take care of you.”

Loid’s throat bobbed with a gulp, eyes wide. A long second passed before he nodded, and a familiar smile found its way to his face. “Of course, Yor. How considerate of you.”

Sitting shirtless in the living room with the lights off was not how Loid expected his evening to go. He was Twilight, a spy – the very best – and yet he still failed to anticipate tonight’s development.

With each day that passed, Operation Strix’s success seemed to grow more and more distant. More and more, he felt unfit to be a spy.

Loid shook his head to himself. The self-flagellation would get him nowhere. He instead looked towards the kitchen, where Yor was approaching from. There was a drunken sway in her uneven strides, and one did not need to be a master spy to see that. One merely needed eyes to make that observation. If her gait didn’t give it away, then the empty bottle of wine on the table was as good of an indicator of her drunkenness.

Even the blind could tell Yor was a little drunk by the smell of alcohol on her breath alone.

But Loid didn’t judge. He’d come to accept that the Briars simply liked their liquor, and were bad at holding it. As long as it didn’t interfere with raising Anya, and Operation Strix as a whole, Yor could drink all the wine she wanted.

Yor took her seat next to Loid. She set down a small tub of ointment on the coffee table, while in her other hand, she carried an icepack. She beamed a lopsided smile at Loid, and he picked up on her nonverbal request to turn, so she could access his back.

This was ridiculous.

The bruises would heal over within days, and the pain wasn’t anything he had not dealt with before. A rubber bullet to the back was nowhere near enough to keep Westalis’ greatest spy down.

But.

But, this was for the good of the mission. As Twilight often overheard in the din of bar chatter, ‘happy wife, happy life.’ Yor’s contentment in her role could only make Operation Strix’s success more probable – Twilight would know; he already ran the odds in his head.

Yor was clearly upset, and some of the pieces fell together in Twilight’s mind with little effort. Being a better wife clearly meant a lot to the woman, even if she was already doing more than enough to fill that fictitious role. Loid could humor her. If allowing Yor to apply rudimentary first aid would make her feel better, then there was no harm in that.

Loid just hoped Yor’s first aid was better than her cooking.

Turning around, Loid gave Yor the clearance to treat his back. He leaned his side against the sofa, bringing an arm up to drape over the backrest.

“Be a gooood patient and hold shtill, Dr. Forger.” The humor was audible in Yor’s slurring voice. In spite of himself, Loid cracked a small smile.

“You’re enjoying the irony of this?” Loid asked.

Yor’s giggle came as a hot breath against his neck. It contrasted the freezing cold contact of the icepack to his shoulder. Loid suppressed a shiver as Yor chimed, “It’s not often a doctor like you has to play the role of patient.”

Loid’s pulse beat all the way into his ears. He failed to form a coherent response beyond a quick hum of acknowledgement.

He blamed his body’s odd reaction on the unfamiliarity of having someone else treat his injuries – no matter how minor this one was. Loid was unsettled by the need to rely on someone else, that was all.

Being a spy meant being completely and utterly self-sufficient in the field. You never left things to chance, and that included first aid, unless you were literally dying. Leaving someone other than himself to lick his battle scars was just foreign to him.

Yes, that was it. That’s why Yor’s touch on his skin, and her hot breath on his neck made him shiver.

It was the same reason he’d felt so flustered when Yor caught him without a shirt on. Being a self-reliant spy meant exposing weakness to no one – and that included being found in states of undress. Sometimes a t-shirt was all that stood between life and death at the tip of a poisoned blade. Having the thin layer of fabric could spell the difference between the poison entering his system, or being partially wiped off in contact with the clothing, before steel tore into flesh.

Not that Twilight expected Yor to stab him with a poisoned blade while he was shirtless.

Being seen in that vulnerable state was simply unfamiliar, and Twilight knew just how much humanity feared the unknown and the unfamiliar.

Not to mention the scars…

Twilight seldom gave his souvenirs from battle a second glance in the mirror. They were just a part of him, but it was a part of him Yor had never seen before, Twilight realized. It must have come as a shock to see the roadmap of scars on his body.

…which could lead to mistrust and misunderstanding from Yor. That must have been why she was staring at him so much! She must have been so confused as to why a psychiatrist like him had as much scars as a war veteran (which he was, but he wasn’t about to tell Yor that).

For the good of the mission, Loid broke the silence first. It was always wise to preempt these things, before thoughts could turn into doubt, and fester into dissent. Loid opened with safe ground. “I have to admit, I’m curious.”

“Hmm?” Yor hummed in response, the sound coming from not far behind his neck.

“You knew right away to use an icepack,” Loid said, and motioned to the table, “and this ointment here.” It went without saying that Yor wasn’t terribly familiar with life skills. Loid pointedly avoided framing his line of inquiry in a way that would highlight this – what Yor would needlessly perceive as a deficiency on her part. “Are you well-versed with first aid?”

A soft laugh fanned the back of Loid’s neck, and his body reacted ever predictably – his skin prickled with gooseflesh, which he was utterly powerless to suppress. Yor took that time to gently shift the icepack against the swelling on Loid’s back; she ensured all the bruising was receiving ample treatment. With another hum, Yor answered, “I know enough… when Yuri and I grew up, we only had each other to rely on.”

Loid could visualize the little smile on Yor’s face, and the fond crinkle in the corner of her eyes. Yor added, “That meant we had to learn to take care of ourselves if we got hurt, too.” The icepack shifted by a degree, and she concluded, “We didn’t have a lot of shpare money to shpend on hospital bills, so we had to make do.”

It was admirable of Yor. That degree of self-sufficiency was difficult to maintain, and it was rare to come by such a selfless person like her. It was why Twilight found it all the more preposterous that Yor could think of herself as an unfitting mother to Anya, and wife to him.

“You’re really something else, Yor.” Loid smiled, and he felt the icepack shift behind him – almost like she was fidgeting. “With how much trouble Anya likes getting herself into,” Loid rolled his eyes, “it’s good to know I can count on you.”

It made her a valuable asset to the mission, is what he meant. Anya was a critical component to Operation Strix, and it lent Twilight confidence to know Yor could tend to Anya, and clean up a scrape or two, if need be.

“Work has been so busy lately,” Loid continued, navigating his way to the justification of all the scars crisscrossing his body. “I can get careless sometimes when I’m tired. I think you’ve noticed.”

Another hum from Yor – this time sounding more like a whine. He could perfectly picture the pout crossing Yor’s sharp features.

Oddly enough, the tone Yor took was reproachful. Almost scolding. “These are a lot of timesh to have gotten careless.”

Lithe fingers made contact with the cluster of slight indentations along Twilight’s lower back, no bigger than an inch long each. His muscles tensed, and his skin tingled with warmth at the aimless path Yor drew from scar to scar within the cluster.

Twilight’s kneejerk reaction to the warm sensation, and the flutter in his chest, was to plainly state, “You’ve been drinking again.”

Yor typically blushed madly at the slightest contact with him. She was bolder tonight, and while her touches were innocent, they were new and unfamiliar; the liquor had obviously lent her some courage.

Instantly, Yor’s fingers jerked back. The sigh she released was a shaky one, warm against Twilight’s neck. “I – I’m shorry, Roid. I didn’t mean to…”

Of course she didn’t. Twilight frowned at himself, just as his gut stirred with discomfort. Yor was only concerned for his wellbeing – being the dutiful wife he’d asked her to be. Her dedication to the role was one neither he nor WISE would ever be able to repay.

“No, Yor.” Loid turned his head over his shoulder. Yor’s warm red eyes, previously downcast, shot up to meet him. “I am sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong, I just…”

Loid found himself lost in the soft furrow of Yor’s well-groomed brows. When her light fingers reclaimed their place on his back, Twilight closed his eyes. “I’m not used to it.” He allowed the tingles to run their course as he tuned into the sensation of Yor’s fingertips. They glided over his scars with a featherlight touch. The warmth started there at her touch, spreading to his chest, and blooming out. In a mumble, more to himself than anyone else, Twilight admitted, “It’s nice.”

A soft giggle – quieter than a whisper – meant Yor had heard him. Her fingers remained there, fixated on the cluster of stab wounds on his lower back.

Having Eidetic memory had its benefits. For a spy, there were endless upsides. Whether it was memorizing the names and features of hundreds of penguins, or recalling three dozen guard patrol rotations in a single building – Twilight’s memory had always been a gift.

But it was also a curse.

Twilight remembered the numb feeling against his back. The slickness of blood sticking his suit to his skin. The heat erupting from the stabs, and turning into white-hot, excruciating pain. He remembered the tears beading up in his eyes as he turned – knife still wedged into his back. He broke his assailant’s arm before firing a suppressed 9mm round into his head.

Twilight felt the pain of the six stab wounds like it was just yesterday, and he had to bite down on his lips hard – detach himself from the memories. While being stitched back together in WISE headquarters, all Sylvia had to say to him was that this was all in a day’s work of dismantling a terrorist organization.

“I thought it was over,” Loid muttered. Yor’s fingers paused their idle strokes. “My patient, I mean,” He cleared his throat. Twilight thought he had subdued all the terrorists in that cell’s hideout. He thought it was safe, and he’d let his guard down. “I made the mistake of turning my back to him. He was an ex-convict, you see.”

“Loid…” Yor pressed her hand flat against the scar; her warm palm covered the old wounds in their entirety, and her thumb rubbed a gentle pattern against his skin. “I didn’t think being a psychiatrist was dangerous all the time.”

That was probably enough for Operation Explain the Scars. As long as Yor chalked them up to therapy sessions gone wrong, he didn’t have to worry about blowing his cover.

But if that was enough, then why was he inclined to keep talking? Why did he yearn to share the origins of his wounds when Yor’s fingers brushed against a different scar – the exit wound of a gunshot, which had gone clean through his right lung. The simple physical contact was enough to constrict Twilight’s chest. It was enough for the searing heat from the entry and exit scars to burn anew, like he’d just been shot. If this kept up any longer, a wheeze would set into his breath, as if his lung really was perforated.

And it was talking that made the phantom pain of the wounds go away. How absurd was that?

…

Well, perhaps not too absurd, now that Twilight thought about it. It was the whole premise of Loid Forger, wasn’t it? That talking was a pivotal component to recovering from ailments of the mind and body alike?

Under his breath, Twilight scoffed.

Some master of disguise he was.

Twilight did what he did best – compartmentalize. He took a second to lock that lost, phantom pain back to where it had come from. He drew on that steely, seemingly bottomless well of resolve he always did.

He needed to get his act together. The mission, and world peace itself, depended on it. Loid Forger wasn’t supposed to be a scarred, traumatized veteran. He was supposed to be a carefree, friendly, if not a little banged up, psychiatrist.

As the silence lingered on, Yor eventually swapped the icebag for a dollop of ointment. The medicinal, nearly herby smell was enough to draw a grimace from Loid, but it went unseen as Yor diligently spread it around the bruise.

“This should help the swelling,” Yor said, lathering ointment in generous portions over the spread of bruises. “It always does the trick for me.”

A beat passed, and Loid opened his mouth – meaning to ask if she bruised easily. Yor beat him to it, her voice coming out in a single slurring breath, “You know me – clumshy, clutzy me – I can’t help but bumpf into things shometimes.”

Loid gave a soft chuckle. “You work too hard, Yor. That’s why you space out and bump into things.”

Yor giggled, and Loid felt the brush of her hair against his back – a sign that she’d shaken her head fervently. “Oh, Loid. You give me too much credit.”

His small smile went unseen when he rebutted, “I don’t give you enough credit, I think.”

“Stop it,” Another giggle came with a slight tinge of embarrassment. Her hand landed on his other shoulder to give him a squeeze – as if to help get her point across to keep him quiet. The little smile Loid concealed only widened. Yor always acted like this when faced with compliments – especially pertaining to her role as mother and wife. It was nice to reassure her like this.

For the good of the mission, of course.

“If anyone ish working too hard, it’s you, Loid.” As Yor spoke, Twilight could feel the weight of her gaze on his back – undoubtedly taking in all the ugly pale marks on his skin. His torso was a canvas, and the dozens of blades, bullets, and pieces of shrapnel throughout the years were the enemy’s paintbrush.

Or perhaps, pain brush.

Twilight grimaced to himself. He was sinking a little too deeply into the Loid Forger role if he was beginning to make dad jokes.

“Look at that,” Yor muttered, continuing to spread the ointment over his bruises. Then with her free hand, she gave his bruise-free shoulder another squeeze. “Your muscles are so tense.”

Competing in a tennis championship against drugged up duos and blatant cheaters tended to have that effect. The day was, to say the least, one hell of a workout.

Loid put on a smile, even if it went unseen. With an upbeat voice, he reminded Yor, “I had a busy day! That tennis tournament took a lot out of me.”

Yor was silent for a moment, and Loid knew her well enough by now to know something was on her mind. It was the sort of silence that could only mean Yor was chewing something over in her head – debating with herself whether or not to bring it up at all.

Or, the wine was taking its effect, and she was falling asleep.

Yor proved to be very much awake when her hands came free from Loid’s back. She gave a soft grunt, and from the corner of his eye, Twilight could see she’d begun using tissue to wipe the residual ointment off her hands.

She must have decided against whatever it was she was thinking of.

Loid shuffled where he sat so he could face Yor again. He found the woman’s face flushed – likely alcohol induced. Her eyes were downcast and evasive.

Tilting his head slightly, Loid asked, “What’s wrong?”

Yor’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath. Her hands clasped together on her lap. Gulping, she asked, “Would you like a massage?”

Twilight’s eyes doubled in size for a split second, and his heart just about fractured a rib with how hard it leapt. Faster than a bullet, he regained his composure, and put on Loid Forger’s signature carefree smile. “There’s no need, Yor. I’m fine.”

Yor sounded decidedly sober when she whispered back, “I’m sorry, Loid, but you don’t look fine.”

Twilight hedged on humor to switch tracks. “I don’t look fine? Ouch.”

Yor’s eyes widened, shooting up to meet Loid’s. Her hands came up to cover her mouth as she turned a shade pinker. “Oh! I’m so, so, sorry! I didn’t mean it like that. You look very fine, Loid.”

A choked laugh slipped out of Loid’s lips before he could reel it in. Joining it was the heat creeping onto his face as Yor tried and failed to make it better, “Err – not that I was looking at you or anything. I just…”

Yor conceded, tucking her knees to her chest and burying her face in her hands.

Loid chuckled, nudging Yor’s arm as he told her, “I’m only joking, Yor. I know what you meant.”

Red eyes peeked up at Loid from between Yor’s fingers. It had Loid grinning – truly unable to help himself when Yor acted like this. It was such a potent fondness he’d developed for the woman over the months.

For the mission, of course. Being fond of one’s wife was essential to appear like a normal, functional family.

Yor pulled free from her hands. With her back straight, and her eyes locked onto Loid’s, she put on a brave face. “Loid…” Yor took in a deep breath; the dedication was etched into the small frown set into her brow. “Let me please take care of you. I’m your wife, and…”

For just a split second, her gaze faltered, shy eyes dipping down before returning to Loid. “It’s my job to make you feel better, so that you can do your job better.” Her flighty eyes glimpsed Loid’s shoulder, and then it clicked once more.

Twilight tried not to let the eureka moment flash across his face.

Yor felt she was at fault for his bruising. In some twisted, probably irrational way, she felt responsible – her failure to be a good wife led to his failure to remain bruise-free when dealing with patients.

It was a ridiculous train of thought, but Yor’s heart was in the right place. She cared, perhaps to a fault.

If Yor had any semblance of genuine feelings for him, then it would be amiss for Twilight to avoid capitalizing on it. Genuine feelings meant a genuine, convincing act they could portray as a family. The more genuine, the less suspicion they would arouse. The less suspicion they aroused, the easier it would be to see Operation Strix to its completion.

It was only logical for Twilight to take advantage of the opportunity presenting itself, and –

Twilight’s gut rumbled, and a wave of nausea crashed over him.

He blinked once, and could see the cracked helmet sitting on top of his auntie’s cabinet. He could feel the weight of the ten dalc in his pocket – the same money he had lied to his father to get. He could feel that same guilt dripping through his insides like acid; the lie made him sick with himself.

Twilight blinked again, and was met with Yor’s pleading eyes.

If any lie could be justified in the name of peace, then why did it make him so damn sick to use Yor’s feelings to his advantage?

Was he thinking too much like Loid, and not enough like who he really was?

No, that couldn’t be it. It was very much his real self who felt like vomiting just recalling the lie to his father – one of the last things he had ever said to dad.

Maybe that was that, then. Yor’s feelings, genuine or not, were not to be toyed with. He’d be as respectful of the wonderful woman before him as much as he humanly could. And that included honoring her odd desire to massage him. Though he would still give her the chance to take the offer back.

He wasn’t sure if it was Loid or Twilight who smiled at Yor. He figured both of them were a bit too fond of Yor by this point.

Loid set a hand on Yor’s arm. He thumbed the smooth fabric of her sweater as he told her, “You’ve taken care of me more than I could ask for. I appreciate the offer, but…” A gentle squeeze of Yor’s arm, and he continued, “I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to do, okay?”

There was nothing but certainty in Yor’s usually timid voice when she replied, “I want to make you feel better.”

Yor Forger stared down at the muscular expanse of Loid’s back from where she sat – perched on her fake husband’s butt. Even in the darkness, it was a hell of a sight before her. She was glad in that moment to see his eyes shut, his face turned to the side, where her own very red face was out of sight. If it wasn’t the wine, then staring at Loid’s well-built physique would keep her face flushed for the rest of the night.

But the longer she ogled, the more likely it was Loid would try and tell her once more that she didn’t need to do this. So, Yor took the plunge, and brought her hands down to meet Loid’s skin.

Yor was an incredibly tactile person, in her own way. She supposed it came with the territory of being a professional in ending lives. One tended to develop the knack for picking up on the slightest things that people’s bodies did. The pulse slowing down as blood spurted from a slit carotid. The feel of the short, wheezing breaths people took when their lung was punctured. The exact number of bone fragments that a knee could shatter into, when kicked at a certain angle.

In the case of Loid, Yor felt every shiver running through her husband’s body whenever her hands would land on his bare skin. The poor man was working himself to death so much that a little physical contact was enough to give him chills. It gave Yor more reason to do her best and take care of the man.

As Yor’s skillful hands worked on the knot by Loid’s lower back, he let out a low, satisfied groan – a sound that made her heart stutter. She was thankful when he spoke up, filling the air with his soft voice, instead of leaving her to repeat that raspy grunt in her mind – daring to wonder what it sounded like right next to her ear.

“You’re full of surprises, Yor,” Loid remarked, nearly instantly plastering a pleased grin on the woman’s face. “I didn’t expect you to be so,” Loid only paused to hum, “…good at this.”

Yor beamed wide. “I got plenty of practice. Yuri is such a workaholic; when he and I still lived together, he was so tense all the time.” The memory of her little brother’s bloodshot eyes, and the dark circles underneath them were endearing in an odd way – probably because Yor knew Yuri only worked that hard for her sake. It must have been why Yor similarly found Loid’s own workaholicism endearing. “I’d give his back a massage from time to time to help him unwind.”

The memories got a giggle from Yor. She continued working away on Loid’s lower back as she said, “If I didn’t, I’m pretty sure the kid would have pulled a muscle.” A soft laugh, and Yor shrugged to herself, “I wonder how working in the ministry became such a physically active job, anyway.”

Yor felt Loid’s nonverbal reply under her fingertips as a hum rumbling through his body.

“Maybe they take advantage of that energy and go-getter attitude of his,” Yor suggested, “and they make him carry lots of things.”

Another contemplative hum, and Loid nodded his head. “That’s probably it. Yuri’s lucky he grew up with such a caring sister.”

Yor had to try and swallow down her bashful giggle. “I try.” The laugh turned into a sheepish smile when she admitted, “Though I did have to always be careful when massaging his back. His ribs never were the same after I broke them.”

Loid’s eyes snapped open, and he lifted his head off the sofa cushion to try and look back at Yor. “You what?”

“It was an accident!” Yor protested. “I hugged him a bit too hard, that’s all!”

The mild alarm in Loid’s eyes remained in place for several long seconds. Then he sighed, set his head back down on the cushions, and closed his eyes. “Try not to break my back tonight, Yor.”

“I won’t!”

The silence settled back into their dim living room, allowing Yor to focus on the task at hand. She slowly worked her way up Loid’s broad back – her skillful fingers pressing firm but gentle at the same time. She would be damned if she broke the ribs of someone she cared about again.

Sinking into her handiwork, and without Loid’s talking to keep her preoccupied, Yor was invariably back to staring at his scarred skin. There were more cuts, jagged or otherwise, than she could count. Some were thin and neat, spaced closely together – indicative of a knife’s stab wounds.

Others were longer and gnarlier, small patches of twisted pale skin. Also cuts, but too messy to have come from a knife. They had to have come from something more jagged. Maybe shrapnel?

The little circular scars were fewer than the cuts, but no less concerning to see. Yor was drawn in particular to one on the middle of Loid’s back, over his right lung. Unable to help herself, she paused the massage to brush her thumb over the scar.

It was a gunshot wound. Yor would know. She had a couple of those on her person – with the newest being on her left butt cheek.

“I must make for a sorry sight,” Loid chimed. His eyes were still shut, and that familiar disarming smile was on his face. “Psychiatry wasn’t the peaceful vocation I expected it to be!”

Yor passed the pad of her finger over the scar one last time. She resumed the massage and remarked, “I think they’re beautiful.”

Loid cracked one blue eye open, looking back at her. He repeated, a hint of disbelief in his voice, “Beautiful?”

“Mhm,” Yor hummed with a smile. Her hands inched their way upward to Loid’s shoulder blades. “You said so yourself – scars are badges of honor.” Her fingers ghosted over a particularly long pale line. “These are proof of how much you care about your patients.” Yor let her pointer finger settle over what was once a bullet hole over Loid’s right shoulder. “These show how much you care about helping people.”

For Loid to be hurt this much by the very people he was trying to help – Yor could hardly fathom it. The strength of his resolve and the size of his heart were unparalleled. Genuinely, Yor was glad that if she had to be in a fake marriage with anyone, it was Loid. She couldn’t ask for a more kind, compassionate, and selfless husband.

“Thank you, Yor.” Loid smiled, and his eyes shut once more.

Yor tried to return the smile, but found it difficult. Because as beautiful as Loid’s scars and all they represented were – Yor’s heart still ached to take in the sheer magnitude and extent of them all. A tightness set into her throat, and her knees grew ever weaker the longer she catalogued the countless wounds.

Dozens of them looked like they could have been fatal, had Loid not received prompt treatment (and it was a mercy that he worked in a hospital). Each of these scars could have been the one that did Loid in – and he would have been gone from this world quicker than Yor could snap her fingers.

Yor gulped. She thumbed the bullet wound for a while longer and muttered, almost to herself. “It must be scary sometimes.”

Loid’s broad torso rose and fell with a deep breath. In the dark, Yor could see him lick his lips before parting them. After a moment’s hesitation, he admitted, “It can be, yeah.” He shrugged slightly, and added, “But it’s always worth it in the end. As long as I can help people – my patients, I mean… then it’s worth it.”

As noble as Loid’s intentions were, Yor could not help but continue to stare at Loid’s scars. The creeping feeling of despair climbed up Yor’s spine as time ticked by. Any one of these scars could have prevented Yor from ever finding Loid, and making him a part of her life. No Loid, no Anya, and no Bond.

No family.

Yor didn’t want to live in a world without Loid Forger.

“Yor?” Loid’s voice cut through her ruminations.

Opening her eyes, Yor didn’t even realize at what point she’d closed them.

Or when her tears had trickled down and dripped onto Loid’s back.

“Oh!” Yor sniffled, bringing her hand up to scrub her eyes. “These are just tears of, uh – exertion!” She set her hand on Loid’s right shoulder and remarked, “This is a big knot you have here, Loid.”

Despite having nothing but the moonlight peeking in through the window, Yor could see Loid’s reaction perfectly. Loid regarded her with those piercing blue eyes of his. After a moment, he either bought her excuse or begrudgingly accepted it. “I used my tennis racket in my right hand,” Loid explained.

Yor released a humorless laugh, fingers gently digging into Loid’s shoulder. Her emotions were running hot now, and the alcohol continued to pump in her veins – even if it had subsided enough to avoid slurring her speech. It was impossible to reel in the bitter sentiment that followed. “At least you had Fiona to help you with the tourney.” A lump formed in Yor’s throat, and she took a second to gulp it down. “Just like she helped you with your patient.”

“Yor…”

The marriage was all a sham. If Yor were a bigger woman, then she ought to step aside and let Fiona take over. If Loid legitimately cared about Fiona, then Yor had to step away from the marriage with grace and dignity, before it was too late. It had to be done as early as now, to prevent complications later down the line.

They’d entered into this marriage due to their own self-interests, after all. Yor could always find someone else to have a fake relationship with (she doubted it). Loid’s feelings, and his happiness were more important than her desire to remain undetected by the SSS.

Yor took a deep breath.

This was it. She had to wish him happiness, and tell him she could be packed and ready to move by tomorrow.

She really needed more booze for this.

Eyes glancing to the side, Yor was reminded of the very empty wine bottle on the table. She’d consumed the last of their liquid courage half an hour ago.

As Yor’s eyes remained fixed to the table – not daring to look Loid’s way – she glimpsed the latest issue of Bondman. It was the same copy Anya had been reading earlier.

What on earth was she going to tell Anya? Mama has to go, because Papa is in love with someone else?

“Ouch!” Loid grunted out. “Yor, you’re gonna break something!”

Yor snapped her attention back to the man underneath her – and the death grip her fingers had sunk into his shoulder. She reeled her fingers in so quickly that she stumbled backwards to the other side of the couch. Yor tucked her legs into her chest, resting her chin on her knees, where her hands came up to clasp together. “S-sorry!”

Loid pushed up onto one elbow, taking the time to roll his almost-dislocated shoulder. When he was satisfied, he pulled himself all the way up into a sitting position, and shifted to face Yor. He swept a few loose strands of messy blonde hair back as he regarded Yor with that small, curious – almost cautious – frown.

Any well wishes that Yor had went out the window. She spat out, “Are you in love with her, Loid?!”

Loid’s eyes shot wide open, and he raised a finger to his lips. With a hush, he told her, “Keep it down. Anya might hear you.” He glanced over his shoulder to find their adoptive daughter’s door still shut. “I was supposed to talk to you about that tomorrow, but –”

“So it’s true!”

“Shh!”

“You two are in love!” Yor pressed the heels of her palms against her now damp eyes and sighed. “God damnit.”

“Yor,” Loid shifted closer, a placating hand raised up, for the little good that it did. “Calm down. This is a complete misunderstanding. Fiona is nothing more than a coworker.” Gently, Loid reached out to pry Yor’s hands from her face, so he could look her in the eye. “There is nothing between us. It’s strictly professional.”

She couldn’t. If she looked into those blue eyes for any longer, they would haunt her when she was living alone in her old apartment again. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I know it’s my fault for being a bad wife.” Yor sniffled and hugged her knees tighter. “I’m not pretty like Fiona is.”

The exasperation crossed Loid’s face for all of a split second. His mouth opened and closed – seemingly struggling to work through his next words.

Yor went on, eyes fixed to the Bondman comic on the coffee table. “You used to think I was pretty, right?” She still remembered the way her heart swooned the first time Loid had ever said it. Yor swallowed the lump in her throat which threatened to come out as a sob. “Or was that just a lie?”

Loid shifted on the sofa some more, tucking one leg beneath him and drawing closer – close enough for his knee to bump into her shin.

“You’re bored with me now?” Yor sniffled, eyes boring holes into Bondman’s masked face on the cover of the comic. “Is that it?”

Yor froze when she felt a warm hand against her cheek. It was the shock which kept her from instinctively flinching away. Her eyes snapped forward to see those damn endlessly caring blue eyes peering at her. Loid drew a finger against her hair, tucking a few loose strands over her ear, where they usually rested.

“I am so sorry for making you worry, Yor.” Loid kept his voice soft and leveled – just above a whisper. His serious face gave way to a small smile, and a faint blush of his cheeks. “You’re as beautiful as the day I proposed to you. All that’s missing are the explosions.”

It startled a giggle out of Yor, and she couldn’t help but grin at Loid through the tears brimming in her vision.

“I promise, I’m not bored with you at all.”

Yor’s eyes fell back down, and the earlier sadness crept in. “Shouldn’t you be bored with me? I don’t have a lot going on. Just… brute strength.”

Loid was silent for a moment. His hand slid free from Yor’s face, to settle on his lap instead.

“Yor… don’t take this the wrong way, but you remind me of my mother.”

Her wide eyes snapped to Loid’s face, the disbelief etched onto her features. “Wha –?”

Loid gave a soft chuckle and put on a smile for Yor. “My mother was strong. Even if I don’t clearly recall what she looked like, I remember how safe I felt to be held by her.”

Yor watched Loid closely – hanging onto his every word. Loid almost never talked about his family or his childhood. The few times he did so deserved Yor’s full attention.

“Even on those nights when I knew a bomb might hit at any moment…” Loid closed his eyes. The little smile looked a tad melancholic now. “I could always sleep soundly if she was at my side. That’s how strong she was.” He opened his eyes and nudged Yor with his knee. “Just like you.”

The tears gathered in Yor’s eyes again, but this time for a completely different reason.

“Anya adores you, you know that?” The familiar eyeroll from Loid, and he added, “Even if she keeps getting into danger, no matter how often we tell her not to…” He sighed and shook his head, swiftly banishing any latent irritation towards his daughter. “Each time, she knows she’ll be okay, because mama is there to save her. She wouldn’t be the Anya we know and love, smiling, energetic… chaotic…”

It got another giggle from Yor to see the way Loid’s eyes narrowed at the last word.

“She wouldn’t be that way if you didn’t give her that sense of security.” Loid smiled, bringing his hand up to pat her knee. “You’re strong, Yor. You’re already an incredible mother, and I don’t want anybody else to replace you as Anya’s guardian.”

“But Fiona…” Yor began, her cheeks flushed, and a frown set into her brow.

“First off, you should see Fiona in the clinic.” Loid flashed that smile of his – so disarming and charming all in one. He laughed softly, “The children are terrified of her. Parenting is definitely not a strength of hers.”

“But –”

“There’s no way it would ever happen, Yor.” Loid shook his head. “Fiona would probably look at Anya as some kind of machine built to generate good grades and Stella stars.” His expression turned serious, eyes tightening. “But she’s not. Anya’s just a kid, and that’s all we can expect her to be. Fiona would never understand that.”

All those memories – all the times Yor and Loid took turns helping Anya with her homework – flashed through her mind. Anya was a clever girl in her own way, and only needed the right guidance and nudging to steer her to excellence. It made Yor’s hands clammy just to think of whatever rigid, draconian parenting Fiona may come up with.

“Still…” Yor clasped her hands tighter atop her knees. Then she shifted completely, since the need to move and fidget the anxiety away was unbearable. She set her feet back down on the floor, allowing her hands to fall back to her knees. She pinched and gripped at the fabric of her leggings. “It’s not like I’m some kind of expert… All I know is what I learned from looking after Yuri.”

Loid’s hand landed on Yor’s – stopping her from fidgeting with her leggings. Yor fought to hide the way her breath hitched, and the perpetual flush of her face deepened. Looking up at Loid, she found that kind smile on his face.

“That sort of experience is exactly why you should have more faith in yourself.” Loid gave Yor’s hand a chaste pat before setting his hand back onto his own lap. “You’ve been raising children since you were a child yourself. You’re second to none, and you should be proud of that.”

The beat of Yor’s heart was as erratic as it was rapid now. It thundered against her chest – practically begging to be let out. If it went on for any longer, her heart may just mutate to grow arms, and pry itself out of her chest, and leap straight into Loid’s arms.

“Yor…” Loid began in that near whisper. “I hope I’m making myself perfectly clear here.”

His hand found its way to the side of Yor’s neck, and she froze. His thumb reached up to stroke a slow, soft line across her cheek, sending her insides burning ever hotter. Loid’s hands were calloused – likely from all the concussive therapy he had to engage in. In an inexplicable, unexplainable way, it brought Yor even more comfort to be touched by them – to know that such worn, therapy-tested hands could be so soft for her.

“You are my wife, Yor.” Loid’s voice was so soft. A tone that was saved for only her. So hushed that it was as if he was afraid of breaking the sanctity of silence in their living room. “Not Fiona. Not anybody else.” Loid grew blurry through Yor’s once more teary eyes. “Only you.”

“Loid…” Yor bit her lip.

“I hope you can forget about Fiona’s weird behavior earlier,” Loid gave an awkward chuckle, “And just continue being Anya’s mother, and my wife.”

Yor didn’t trust her voice to respond. It would surely come out cracked and strangled because of the sob she was trying to contain. The tears were flowing freely down her face now; it made Yor swoon all over again to feel Loid’s thumb brushing away the tears as they trickled down.

Even if it was all a sham, there was a reverence to accepting the role before her – to be Mrs. Forger to Loid, and mother to Anya.

There were a woman’s shoes she had to fill. Someone Yor had never met before, and someone Loid never talked about. Losing a loved one was terrible, so of course Yor could empathize, and avoid prying.

But still.

To know that Loid wanted her as his wife, sham or not, and as Anya’s mother – arguably not as much of a sham, considering she did actively take a part in raising the little girl – well, it just about broke Yor.

Not in a bad way. More in a deeply touched, deeply respectful kind of way. For the late Mrs. Forger’s sake, Yor knew she would give it her all to take care of Loid and Anya.

Throat still far too tight, Yor nodded her acceptance. It sent her dark hair bouncing, and more tears dripping down her face.

Loid gave a delighted hum, and bowed his head. “Thank you, Yor.” And because the man was too nice for his own good, he reached over to the tissue box on the coffee table. He yanked several pieces free, and took it upon himself to dab away the tears streaking down his wife’s face.

“You know, Yor,” Loid wiped the streaks of tears from her face, and it gave Yor clear view of his small smile, and the subtle flush of his cheeks, “you told me something early on in our marriage.”

“Huh?”

“I never did get to return the sentiment.” He brought a hand up to rub the back of his neck. It gave Yor another eyeful of Loid’s firm pecs – an untimely reminder of how shirtless Loid still was.

Her face flushed ever hotter.

With how emotional she had gotten, Yor almost completely forgot about the man’s state of undress.

Such thoughts were instantly dashed away when Loid put a hand on her shoulder – securing the woman’s attention. There it was. That small smile of Loid’s – the one he reserved just for her when she left in the mornings, and returned in the evenings.

Loid gave Yor’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m really glad I married you, Yor.”

Yor’s heart just about flatlined in that moment. Her lip quivered, and she was truly unable to help herself when she extended her arms to Loid and asked, “L-Loid, can I…?”

A delighted hum, and Loid smiled wider. He spread his arms and nodded. “Of course.”

Yor all but leapt into her husband, wrapping her arms around his neck. She snuggled her face against his bare chest – taking in the clean, citrusy smell of his soap. She’d lunged with such force that the two of them toppled over to the side, lying down on the sofa.

“Careful! My neck!” Loid choked out as his hands came to settle over the small of Yor’s back

“Sorry!” Yor laughed, loosening her death-grip around Loid’s poor neck bones.

A fond chuckle came out warm against Yor’s hair. It was soon joined by a soft pressure atop her head – Loid lowering his face to her hairline in what may or may not have been a kiss. Yor wriggled like an eel – doing her damn best to contain herself and her madly fluttering emotions. If she didn’t, she was liable to accidentally kick Loid in the face or something – simply because she couldn’t take the overwhelming influx of care and l–

Err, affection – from Loid.

All the squirming drew another little laugh from Loid, and he hugged Yor tighter. In time, Yor was all out of excessive good-natured panic, and she ceased writhing within the embrace – it’s not like she had anything to complain about, anyway. She was the one who initiated it.

They lied still on the sofa together, the silence only broken by their slow, even breaths. With her ear pressed up to Loid’s chest, she could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart – and what a calming sound it was.

Yor wasn’t sure how long they had lain there together in the quiet when she began nodding off. After catching herself before she could slip into dreamland, she muttered, “Am falling asleep…”

It was bittersweet, in a way. Because this was undoubtedly the part where they pried themselves off one another, and returned to their rooms.

For the first time since their sham of a marriage began, Yor kind of wished they still had the couple room setup, damned YES pillows and all.

Loid then surprised Yor by sticking one arm out overhead – to the armrest. He grabbed the neatly folded blanket, and with one swift tug, unfurled it above them. Loid guided the fabric as it sailed down to envelop the two of them, trapping their body heat underneath the blanket.

“Good night, Yor,” Loid mumbled against her hair.

Smiling to herself, Yor shifted a little to get comfortable, snuggling into her husband. “Good night, Loid.”

In all her life, the only attachment she’d ever had was to Yuri. Their parents were long gone, so Yor’s little brother was all she had. But now, it was a pleasant shock to wind up where she was now: curled up in her husband’s arms (fake or not), with her adoptive daughter (fake or not) sleeping soundly in the next room over.

Never did Yor think she’d find a place like this – a place she was so unwilling to leave behind.

Yor held Loid just a little tighter, eliciting a soft hum, rumbling from the man’s chest.

She could get used to this.

…

…

…

In the morning, it was the sound of gentle footfalls that awoke Loid and Yor. As they lazily blinked their way to consciousness, they were met with wide, bright green eyes. In the morning sun, Anya’s pink hair just about lit up the room.

With a delighted squeal, Anya declared, “Mama and Papa are acting lovey-dovey!”

“No, we’re not!”

“It’s not like that!”