Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I miss Mama,” Anya whined, looking at her empty seat with a frown. Dinner had been an uncharacteristically quiet affair for the past week. Talkative as she was, Anya didn’t seem keen on chattering away when her Mama wasn’t there to listen along. “I only get to see her in the mornings.”

“She’s very busy at her job,” Loid offered. It didn’t really work as consolation, not that he was expecting it to—he was also a little miffed at how City Hall seemed to be running her ragged these days. Her workload seemed to be rivalling his own, and he was a spy in an understaffed agency. Every morning she would apologetically mention yet another late shift, weary with bags under her eyes, yet she never failed to set off without a bright smile and her best wishes. He really hoped she would be able to get some rest soon. 

“So many bad guys to get rid of,” Anya sighed.

“What?”

“N-nothing!” Anya hastily clambered onto her seat and snatched up her fork. “Let’s eat, I’m hungry!” 

Loid relented, deciding to let her odd comment slip, and had begun to dish out some pasta for Anya when there was a telltale clinking at the door. He froze, fork in hand. Anya gasped and jumped out of her chair, running to the door with Bond close at her heels. “MAMA!” 

Sure enough, the door swung open and Yor stood there, eyes bright. She laughed as Anya barreled into her legs and gave an excited Bond a pat on the head. When Loid came to the doorway, she grinned at him, cheeks flushed. “I’m home.”

Loid found himself smiling without meaning to. “Just in time for dinner. How does pasta sound?”

“Amazing,” Yor sighed as she took her coat off. He noticed her forehead was shiny.

“Is it hot out?” 

“Huh? Oh.” Yor wiped her forehead and found her hand slick with sweat. “A little, I guess. I was also in a rush to get home.” She smiled again before heading inside to set her things down, Anya and Bond trailing behind.

They sat down again, this time Yor occupying her seat, and it seemed like a switch turned on within Anya. She began eagerly babbling about a hundred different topics and events in a jumbled fashion as food was dished out, only taking pause when she began to eat. Loid took her pause as an opportunity to talk.

“I’m glad your work finally let you off a little earlier,” he said. “They’ve certainly been...liberal with assigning late shifts, to say the least.”

“Oh, yes,” Yor agreed, her voice airy. “It...has to do with the recent emigrations to Westalis, I think.”

“Ah.” That made sense. Recently, especially in the last week, Ostanians had been moving to Westalis in droves. The reason wasn’t what mattered much to Loid—people would move wherever, whenever they pleased for whatever reason—but rather, the outcome. Radicals and pro-war Ostanians began spreading nationalistic rhetoric, insisting that “deserters” should be treated like traitors. Fights had broken up across the border. People were injured and killed. WISE had been looking into any particular driving force behind the surge in anti-Westalian rhetoric, but they had yet to pinpoint any one source. There were too many people making lofty claims in too little days. Yor, working in City Hall, would definitely have more on her plate. “Hopefully things calm down soon before they get any more out of control.” 

Yor hummed in agreement, lifting her fork to her mouth. Her movements were slow and languid. Tiredness, perhaps? But something seemed off. Anya was blinking up at her Mama, and Bond began to whine. An unsettling pit formed in Loid’s stomach. Something was very wrong. 

“Mama,” Anya started, pulling at her sleeve with a little hand, “why’s your head so slow—”

Yor’s fork clattered out of her hand and her chin dropped. If Loid hadn’t shot to his feet and caught her head in a hand, she would have faceplanted into her plate.

Her forehead was hot and sweaty under his touch. She wasn’t just flushed like usual when she’d greeted him at the door—she was burning. And her eyes, which he’d thought were just shining before, were glazed upon closer inspection.

He wanted to kick himself. All the signs had been there in his face, yet he’d failed to notice any of them right away. What kind of spy did that? What kind of husband does that? 

She was sick.

“Mama is poisoned?” Anya asked frantically. He had no idea where she got that notion from. “Is she gonna die?!”

“She’ll be fine,” Loid assured her, though the feeling of her scalding forehead under his hand wasn’t helping. He needed to get her to bed. “Would you mind opening her bedroom door? I’m going to bring her in.” No sooner than he’d finished speaking had Anya shot off, dutifully heeding his words for once. He gingerly made his way around the dinner table, lifting Yor’s head before hefting her out of her seat. She was solid and still in his arms. Knowing the inhuman displays of strength she was capable of made her limp arms and shallow breathing feel even worse. He hurried to her bedroom, where Anya and Bond stood guard at the door, and laid her down.

Anya struggled onto the bed with Bond’s help and crawled over to Yor’s side. Her lip wobbled. “Papa, she’s going to be fine, right?” 

“Yes. I’m a doctor, remember? We’ll make her better,” he said, ignoring the fact that his occupation was not only psychiatry, but also fake. “Wait here. I’m going to bring some things.” He left and returned with some cool water, washcloths, a thermometer, and various other items. Anya hadn’t moved from her position except to wrap an arm around Bond’s neck. She was whispering to the dog—something about telling her something?—that Loid didn’t really pick up on. 

The thermometer read 38.8 degrees. Loid slipped Yor’s headband off so her bun wouldn’t get in the way of the pillows before looking at her work uniform. He wouldn’t undress her yet, just take off the outer layers and unbutton her cuffs and the top buttons of her shirt to wipe down her wrists and neck. If the fever persisted for a few more days without seeming to get better...

He’d deal with that then. 

“Can you put these in the kitchen?” Loid asked Anya, handing her the tray of items. She took them gingerly, showing more caution than with anything he’d seen her handle. “And please wait outside. I’m going to take care of Yor and then come out.”

Anya looked like she wanted to argue, but after one more glance at her Mama’s still form and the tray in her hands, she gave one jerky nod before descending from the bed and running outside. Loid got to work, sliding Yor’s work vest off of her and rolling her sleeves up. It was when he was wiping her neck that he noticed it. 

It was small, almost imperceptibly so. He could have even mistaken it for a mole if he hadn’t already known that Yor’s neck, ever exposed in her usual red sweater, was free of any marks. But it was there, a small, dark red spot on a slightly raised bump of skin, and he knew what it was from firsthand experience.

A track mark. Something—someone—had injected a syringe into Yor’s neck. 

...

Handler appeared at his door around noon the next day. He knew why: he’d been summoned via cipher placed in the morning paper, and failed to show up at the meeting spot. She was tapping one heeled foot, arms tightly crossed, when he opened the door. 

“Dr. Forger,” she greeted. Her clipped tone was one that agent recruits at WISE saw as a signal to run away. Loid couldn’t find it in himself to be scared. “I wasn’t aware you were taking a day off from work today.” 

“My wife’s sick,” was all Loid offered as explanation. It was short, frankly lacking in the etiquette typically required when speaking to one’s superior, but Handler must have seen something in his face because her foot paused in its drumming and her arms loosened slightly.

“...what happened?” She peered around his frame as though she might be able to see into Yor’s bedroom. “Is she alright?”

“Better than last night,” Loid replied. He’d stayed by her side throughout most of the night, monitoring her condition. Her breathing got slightly deeper as he switched out her washcloths and her temperature went down a bit, which was good, but she hadn’t woken up once. 

Though, he couldn’t have slept even if he’d tried. There was the issue of the syringe mark. Loid knew he wasn’t mistaken, and it was driving him just a little insane as he came up with countless possibilities behind it.  Anya’s odd remark kept resurfacing in his mind, too. Mama is poisoned? But if so, why? How? And most importantly, who? Who dared do such a thing to Yor and expect to come out of it unscathed?  

It was then that Anya slipped into the room and sidled up next to Loid, peeking out from behind his legs. “Boss la—er, are you Papa’s boss?” 

An instinctive smile found its way onto Handler’s face as she squatted, waving to Anya. “Hello there. Anya, was it?” 

“Yup.”

“You were right, I am your papa’s boss. I heard your mama’s sick.” Handler had a naturally soft cadence while speaking to Anya, something which would otherwise be unbelievable coming out of her mouth. “But she’ll get better soon, won’t she?” 

Anya nodded fast. “Yes. Mama is strong.”

“All mamas are.” Handler patted Anya’s head before getting up. “I believe there are some patient files to be looked over. Good thing I brought them with me,” she said, while her lips mouthed the words, I know you’re busy, but let me at least brief you. 

“That’s quite confidential matter to just be carrying around, is it not?” Loid asked, glancing down at Anya. How will you brief me without Anya hearing?

At that moment, Anya jumped. “Um, Papa! I want to sit with Mama. I’ll be quiet, I promise. Can I? Pleeease?” 

Loid blinked. “Oh, uh, sure. Make sure not to jostle her, okay? And come tell me if anything happens.”

“Yup!” Anya saluted before running off into Yor’s bedroom. Handler watched her go with a fond expression. 

“She certainly has good timing.”

“Right...” Loid said, a little bewildered. He shook his head and headed to the living room, sinking into his seat with a groan. He hadn’t realized how stiff his muscles felt. Handler followed and perched on the sofa, crossing her legs. 

“I’ll get straight to the point. It’s about the border scuffles that have been happening all week,” she said in a low voice. The same issue that had overworked Yor, then. 

“Did we find a source?”

“Well... it’s complicated.” Handler sighed and adjusted her skirt. “That’s what we were looking for at the start, but we ended up finding something else. Something unexpected.”

Unexpected was never good in a spy’s line of work. “What is it?”

“A lot of the bigger figures promoting a war and encouraging the border fights were killed. They had hits put on them.”

“That works out for us, though.”

“It does,” Handler agreed. “The unexpected arose when we traced all of their financial transactions and found that each one of them was secretly sponsoring the same underground research facility. So we looked into it.”

“And?”

“New forms of warfare,” she said. “Biological. New poisons, acids, gases. It seems like there’s some breakthrough scientific research happening underground to develop these kinds of things. And they’re more lethal than anything we’ve encountered before.” A frown twisted Handler’s painted lips. “We’ve connected them to whole families that were murdered because they were planning to move. All it takes is one shot to kill a fully grown adult within minutes.”

Loid felt nausea brewing in his gut. “One shot?”

“Half a milliliter, give or take.” 

It might have been a stretch to connect what Handler was saying to Yor, but the situation seemed too unlikely to just be a coincidence. A typical shot administered via syringe was half a milliliter. Yor worked at City Hall, which was loosely connected to the border situation, but how would she have come in contact with someone possessing that kind of poison? And why would they give the shot to her, when she wasn’t planning on moving to Westalis? On top of all that, Handler said one shot could kill an adult within minutes, but Yor was alive, if not feverish. All the new information was making his head spin with more questions than answers. No amount of critical thinking was helping him draw conclusions—he was missing a piece to the puzzle. A big one.

Handler cocked her head. “Is something the matter?”

He knew better than to lie to his Handler. She’d trained him; she knew all of his tells. Yet when he tried opening his mouth to tell her about the syringe mark on Yor’s neck, nothing would come out. For whatever reason, he couldn’t tell her. Not when he didn’t know the missing puzzle piece himself. 

“It’s just a worrying situation in general,” he said lamely. He fully expected her to flip his seat over for daring to lie, but instead, she softened again. 

“Your wife will be fine,” she assured. “Don’t worry so much.”

“I-I was talking about the research!” Loid sputtered. Handler rolled her eyes. 

“You’re incorrigible,” she muttered before getting up and dusting herself off. “Do keep me updated on your wife’s condition. I’m leaving now.”

Handler’s unexpected softness thoroughly unsettled him. He was on his guard ten minutes after she left, expecting her to pop in the window and clip the back of his head for insubordination. When he was sure she was gone, he began heading to Yor’s room. Just then, Anya dashed out, head wildly swinging until she saw him. 

“Papa! Mama is trying to leave!” Anya cried. Loid ran into the bedroom, where Yor was staggering on her feet, trying to pull on her coat over the work clothes she’d slept in. 

“Yor! You need to rest!” 

She didn’t seem to hear him. With a grunt, she pulled the coat on, creases bunching up around her shoulders, and grabbed for her keys. They slid off her dresser and landed on the ground with a thump.

“Yor.” Loid stepped forward and gently grabbed her by the shoulders before she could lurch down to pick them up. “Yor, can you hear me?”

She looked up into his face, but her expression seemed far away, eyes unfocused. “I need to get to work.”

“You need to rest,” he repeated.

“I have to go,” she insisted, fighting against his hold. It was a mere iota of her usual strength, which was the only reason why Loid was able to hold onto her. “I can’t miss work.”

“You’re sick,” Loid said. He moved one hand up to her head to feel. Less hot than before, but still warm. “And it’s Saturday. Don’t worry about work and focus on getting better.”

She was still struggling. “I have to go... Yuri...” Loid’s eyes widened. “I need money for Yuri’s school.”

Oh. He knew Yor had raised Yuri from a young age. That probably meant that she had never allowed herself to rest. When was the last time she’d gotten sick? When was the last time anyone had cared for her while she was sick? Had she always tried fighting through it by herself, not letting anyone know until the last moment when her body gave up? The thought of her, young and alone and feverish, made his heart twist in a way he couldn’t quite justify. You aren’t her real husband, he reminded himself. There’s no reason to be hung up over it. 

But he still brushed her hair out of her eyes, letting his hand linger on the side of her face probably longer than was strictly necessary. “Yuri is doing well,” he said softly. 

She blinked, lethargic. “What?”

“Thanks to you, he graduated top of his class and has a good job now.” He slipped the wrinkled coat off of her shoulders. “You can rest, Yor. You already did everything you had to do for Yuri.” 

“Everything I had to do...” She echoed. Loid’s eyes strayed unbidden to the mark on her neck. “Oh. Right. How could I forget?” With a soft laugh, she flopped back onto the mattress, arms splayed out. Within seconds, her breathing had slowed.

Anya had been peeking out from behind the doorway the whole time. “Does Mama not remember things?”

“It’s the fever. Once it dies down a little she’ll be back to her usual self,” he explained. “It seems like she’ll be up later. I’m going to go make some soup. Want to help out?” 

“Ooh, yes!” Anya cheered and ran out to the kitchen. “Can I do the chopping?!”

“Absolutely not.” 

...

The soup had been made a couple hours ago and sat on the stovetop to stay warm. Anya, who’d tired herself out from the very strenuous job of peeling 3 cloves of garlic, had napped, woken up, and was now watching cartoons. Loid had taken Bond for his walk before sitting down to aimlessly flip through the paper. 

Yor still slept. 

He glanced at the clock. It was nearing dinnertime. Maybe he’d been wrong about Yor waking up today—she’d probably be up tomorrow. They’d save the soup for her and order takeout for dinner. 

It was while he was deliberating this that Anya suddenly straightened in her spot by the television and turned her head as if listening to something. Then, she shot up and ran into the kitchen. 

“Anya?” The sound of the tap filling a glass reached his ears, followed by her pattering shoes. “Where are you going with that?” 

She ran into Yor’s bedroom, the glass sloshing. He was just opening his mouth to chide her for running with a full glass when he pushed the bedroom door fully open and saw Yor, sitting up in bed. 

“You’re awake,” he said, too surprised to say anything less obvious. Yor opened her mouth to respond but coughed instead.

“Oh, you must be parched.” He hurried forward and helped Anya deliver the glass to Yor spill free. She drank slowly and deeply until the glass was empty. 

“...thank you,” she finally managed, voice a little hoarse. She smiled at Anya. “Thank you for the water.” 

Anya stared at Yor for a total of one second before bursting into tears. She shoved her face into Yor’s lap, still bawling, while her parents exchanged a startled glance above her head.

“You were sleeping for so long,” Anya hiccupped. “An-and your face was always hot! I haven’t gotten to play with you in forever!” 

Yor looked like she was holding back tears as she stroked Anya’s head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.” She looked up at Loid. “How long has it been?”

“Just a day. You got back after work last night and fainted during dinner.”

Yor’s eyes widened and a hand twitched. Loid thought she might have raised it to her neck. “I...I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that would happen.”

“What are you apologizing for? You’re better now, and that’s what matters.” Loid leaned forward and felt her forehead again. “How do you feel?”

“Um—ah, good,” Yor stammered. Loid thought her face was awfully red again, but she seemed clear-minded, so he slipped his hand off. 

“That’s good. I made soup—”

“I helped,” Anya said, her voice muffled. She’d stopped crying.

“We made soup,” Loid amended with a smile. “Do you feel like you can eat?”

“Oh... thank you so much. Yes, I think I’ll have some,” Yor said. “Er... I’ll wash up first, though. I feel a bit gross.”

After Yor showered and changed, the family had a late dinner in her room, a tray balanced on her lap as she sat in bed. After their meal, Anya quickly began nodding off, so Loid helped her get ready for bed. It was after he was sure Anya had fallen asleep that he exited her bedroom and turned around, knocking on Yor’s door. 

“Come in.”

Loid entered and quietly shut the door before sitting at the edge of the bed. “I didn’t really get to ask you before, but are you sure you’re fine? There’s some more of the painkillers I gave you before. I could also get soreness patches if—”

“I’m fine,” Yor cut in with a laugh. Her eyes, he noted with relief, were shining like usual, none of the disconcerting glaze from the night before. “You and Anya took really good care of me.” She cleared her throat. “Um, speaking of... did I say anything while I was feverish? O-or do anything?” 

He looked at her neck. Her hair, damp and faintly smelling of lavender shampoo, was hanging down and covering the mark he knew was there. “Not really,” he replied. “You mentioned Yuri once, but that was it."

"Ah, okay. That's a relief." She fidgeted with the sheets, seeming like she wanted to say something more.

"What is it?"

Her fingers twisted for a few more seconds before she sighed and stopped. "It's just...I feel awful. I worried Anya and was a burden on you both."

"You were sick, not a burden," Loid said. "Everyone gets sick."

"Not me," she mumbled. He felt like he wasn't meant to hear that.

"Actually, Yor..." She looked up at him. He took a deep breath. "I noticed something while I was wiping your neck down. It looked like a mark from a needle."

Yor wore her heart on her sleeve. She was perhaps the most candid person he knew. So when the color drained from her face and her hand flitted to her neck, right where the mark was, he knew it wasn't for show. "I-I... that's..." she stammered.

It was clear from her reaction that the mark was something significant. Perhaps Loid's far-fetched conclusions were even correct, and Yor had somehow fallen on the wrong end of a syringe filled with newly developed poison. But that still didn't answer all his questions. For instance, who gave it to her. Why they gave it to her. And most importantly, what she was doing in order to be close to poisons like that in the first place.

Twilight would coax answers out of her one way or another. That was what spies did—they dug out information from every last crevice and acted as they saw best fit. Twilight would guilt her, maybe, using her urge to act as a good wife against her in order to get her to fess up. Or maybe Twilight would seduce her, tuck a maddeningly lavender-scented lock of hair behind her ear, letting his hand drop to her neck. He'd trace the syringe mark with a thumb before kissing it and whispering a request for the truth against her skin.

"You don't need to tell me," Loid said. Yor froze, eyes impossibly wide. "I won't ask if you can't tell."

"But-but how can you..."

He could finish her sentence without having to hear it. How can you trust me?

"We all have our secrets," he said. Inside his head, Twilight was banging at the walls, screaming his idiocy. He ignored that. "That includes me, too."

Yor shrunk in on herself. "But I caused so much trouble. If I... if only I'd been more careful, I wouldn't have had to drag you both into my mess."

He took one of her hands between his own. "I meant it when I said you weren't a burden, Yor," he said, his eyes flicking between both of hers. "You don't have to bear every burden alone. I..." He thought back to her in the throes of the fever, trying to stagger to work for Yuri. "I know you're strong and capable. I know you've shouldered things alone your whole life. But you're allowed to be weak sometimes—that's what family is for."

It was rich of him to be talking about what family was when he'd built this fake one for the purpose of his mission. But more and more often, he'd forget that their family was fake. More and more often, he'd find himself in moments of weakness, too. That's what family is for.

Why else was he failing to draw the truth out of Yor? Because, loathe as he was to admit, she—along with Anya—was his greatest weakness. It was the reason why he hadn't been able to tell Handler the truth about the mark on Yor's neck. Some selfish part of him knew that WISE would be able to dig up the truth and he might have to let go of Yor. He wasn't ready for that yet. He wasn't sure he ever would be.

So even though he was directly going against every principle that had been drilled into him for over a decade, he didn't ask.

"Besides," he continued, "it was in our vows, right? In sickness and in health."

That drew a watery smile out of Yor, a sight Loid gladly drank in. She looked down at their hands and he jolted, realizing he'd been holding on for way too long. But before he could pull back, she clasped his hands with her other one. In a distant corner of his mind, he noted how small her hands were compared to his.

"I want to tell you," she admitted quietly. "I can't right now, but I want to. When I tell you, would you..." she trailed off.

"I'd stay," he said without a second thought. At her shocked look, he repeated, "I'd stay, because I know the kind of person you are, Yor. Whatever it is you can't tell me, you must have a good reason."

Selfishly, he wanted to ask if she'd stay for him, too. It would be both ridiculous and hypocritical to do so because 1) he was the one planning on erasing Loid Forger once necessary, and 2) she wasn't suspicious of him in the first place. But the urge to hear her reassurance was almost overwhelming. Tell me you trust me, too. Even though I have a thousand lying faces I've told you more truths than I ever should have. Tell me you'd stay even if you knew my truth.

"It's the same for you," she said. This time his eyebrows were the ones raising in shock. "You said you have your own secrets too. But I know that whatever they are, you're still a good person."

It was then that he realized how close they were. He was perched on the edge of her bed. Their hands were clasped together, and at some point they'd leaned in far enough that he could see the shadows cast by her lashes onto her cheeks. The lavender scent was wrapping around him now, filling him up with every inhale.

He could feel himself close to doing something stupid. Like threading his hands through her dizzying lavender hair, or touching the pulse under her jaw. So he wrenched himself back with more difficulty than he'd anticipated and gestured to some used washcloths on her dresser.

"I'll—" Why was his voice so hoarse? He cleared his throat. "I'll put those away. You should rest."

"Right. Yes." She nodded so vigorously that he was afraid she'd give herself a headache. "I will. And, um, thanks for the soup. And the medicine. And, well, everything."

"Anytime," he smiled, before swiftly walking out of her room. He shook his head once he was out, taking deep breaths of—thankfully lavender free—air. That scent must have been driving him crazy.

A few days later, when Yor was feeling better (and promised a tearful Anya that she'd hold off on late shifts no matter what), Loid sent Handler a message that he was ready to get on with the mission. He found himself quite eager this time around.

He was going to give some underground researchers and whoever had used their creations pure hell.