Chapter Text
My strategy is that any day
I don't know how
I don't know on what pretext
You finally have me.
Mario Benedetti
The last time he had the courage to take her hands and place them on his lap, like a book on a shelf, they’re coated in sea foam—free and clean from all the red she despises.
And the truth is, he slowly learns, they both can wash the blood away.
Twilight does the math for the fifth time in his head as his eyes scan the port around him, the noise and the smell of seasalt filling all his lungs. Mixing himself with the endless crowd, he feels a safe spot, and finally his eyes land on the small boat floating alone, awaiting for him.
On the other side of the crowd, she’s there.
On the other side, her hands of ocean and free of blood await for him.
Twilight gives a deep breath, and meddles with the people, walking towards the light.
He knows all the colors that breathe in her.
Free and kind. Always giving and receiving. Holding all the silver joy in her golden hands. A war-won body. A mother pure at heart.
That’s how his wife was always to his eyes.
Twilight tries to remember all the times he thought of proposing to her—all the times he was about to do it. Endless. In the battle, in the blood, in the kind silence that slept between them. All the times they found each other in their own goals, different missions, times when seeing her was too much for his cowardly heart. Whenever she bandaged him, whenever she tried to cook him a meal and she failed, whenever she talked and listened to his stories.
All the times he hoped.
He wonders, even now, how much did he make her believe, how did the hope he gave her taste in her mouth. Bittersweet, perhaps. All the times he wanted to leave everything behind and take her away, she wished the same for him, with him.
He tries to think of the first time they met—it was always the same.
Always on purpose, never by coincidence.
They weren’t married, but they were always husband and wife.
Twilight was always hoping to see her one more time.
And he remembers her in all the colors. Now, stepping on the road, he can see a glimpse of her black hair flying with the sea breeze. She’s facing towards the ocean, the endless hill of water, and he knows she’s waiting for him. After two years, after a whole marriage, she’s still waiting.
If he wasn’t the best spy, he wouldn't have been chosen as the groom.
If she wasn’t the best assassin, she would have never been the bride.
And Twilight thinks, to himself, that he’s so glad they both did.
Now he will be able to hold her hands free of blood. He fixes himself again when he reaches the boat. There, he finds the man that has been a friend of Franky for a very long time and that is willing to help them out. Twilight bows his head in a silent greeting, and the old man smiles, bowing back, giving him the signal that he’s welcome and he has been waiting for him.
As soon as he steps in, a voice muffled by the wind greets him.
“Papa!”
She has strawberry eyes and foam hands.
That’s the first thought running through his mind like a stream in his blood, as soon as Yor turns and looks at him with a smile breaking on her face. The second thought, louder and free, comes with the confirmation that his wife and daughter are both safe—running towards him in happiness.
Anya jumps to his arms, and he laughs loudly—because he can, because now he’s free to do so. “Papa made it!”
“Hello, peanut,” he smiles, patting her head, then he looks up, and Yor is there with her watery smile and shining red eyes. “Good evening, darling.” But she jumps as well, joining their hug. Twilight laughs again and opens one of his arms, letting her bury her face on his shoulder, and the three of them laugh and smile and breathe in sync.
“You made it,” Yor whispers, looking up at him, “you really did.”
“Of course, my plans never fail,” he smiles, smug, and she rolls her eyes and laughs.
“Anya was a brave girl and waited!” their daughter exclaims, tugging on his shirt.
“You did, sweetie, you were the best of us all,” Yor giggles. After a moment, Twilight puts Anya in his wife’s arms and turns to look at their helper. He does a signal, and the man understands, finally starting the boat—and slowly, steadily, they all leave shore.
For endless minutes they remain in silence. Yor snuggles on his arm as Anya rests her little head on her mama’s shoulder, and Twilight smiles as he wraps his arm around Yor’s back. And so they remain, not speaking, not making a sound, knowing that everything that was needed to say is already floating between them—little atoms of blue, the air drifting and soft in their lungs. Twilight looks back, the port growing smaller and smaller in the distance, enjoying the feeling of the anxiety finally erasing itself completely. He knows, finally, that they’re safe.
“One more thing,” he announces, unwrapping his arm around them. “You have the identifications, right?”
“Oh, yes,” Yor moves and searches on the pocket of her dress, taking the three cards with their photographs and names on. “We will need them when we reach land, won’t we?”
“We will,” he nods, taking them when she offers them to him. “It’s a land of a different continent, and a different language, but I know how to speak it well, and we will make sure you will.”
“And Anya?” his daughter tugs on his shirt.
He chuckles. “Of course, you will need it for school, won’t you?”
Anya breaks into a big smile and throws her arms up, letting a scream of happiness out that make them both laugh. Twilight opens his own identification, scanning it, making sure that everything is just as it needs to be.
“I was looking at them earlier,” Yor calls, peking to scan it as well. “And I found the name you picked to be amusing,” she giggles. “Loid… Forger, isn’t it?”
“Yes”, he looks at her, his smile intact. “But don’t worry, Yor, you both will keep your names.”
“I don’t mind that,” she moves her head. “Yor Forger has a good ring to it.”
“Anya likes it too!” she explains. “Anya Holger!”
“Forger,” he fixes, patting her head.
His daughter repeats the name over and over. There’s no need to worry, he reassures her, she has all the time to learn it. They have the golden time between their hands now, they have nothing to worry about anymore. Whether they find only a small house, they do various jobs, and they live without knowing the tomorrow—they will be fine, he’s sure of it. That’s what he says, calmly, breathing the salty air that reaches the melody of his heartbeat.
Yor looks at him in a way she always did, with the words that were always there in her eyes. She stands on her tiptoes, their noses bruising, until she makes the distance between their mouths.
When she separates, her eyes are still shining. “I love you.”
"I love you too," he smiles, in a way that makes him look younger, the same way he did two years ago, "and that's all that matters."
Yor smiles back, kissing Anya’s forehead, and the three of them turn to look at the sea before them, where the path begins. It’s the path that does not open before them, but that they will open together. The wakes in the sea. The way the twilight falls on them and that the three of them accept, holding each other, observing the infinity of the water as they finally bloom.