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It was cold.
The nights in Berlint have been unrelenting recently. The constant chill of the night breeze signaling the coming of winter prickled his skin, tiny, tiny blades raking through his battered body with such precision that it left him raw, shaking while he sat on the steel chair on their balcony.
Awake.
How long has he been awake?
Didn’t know. Didn’t care. Sleep was a luxury he didn’t have. Too much work. Too many people that needed saving. Too many threats out in the shadows. He couldn’t be complacent. Couldn’t allow himself to be complacent. People’s lives were on the line.
Broken debris scattered all over. Sirens, so many sirens, screaming, screeching, wailing.
Her body was limp, unmoving, bleeding, bleeding, He couldn’t make it stop, make it stop, please, please—
He sucked in a breath, downing his drink in one fell swoop, the burn of the alcohol cascading down his throat as his free hand dug into his thigh, past the cloth of his sweatpants and into his skin. Everything was slow, dull, yet the burning persisted.
He’s been working overtime again. Extra missions. Extra paperwork. Extra injuries. He could take it. He could take everything WISE and the world could throw at him, even when his own Handler told him multiple times to stop.
He wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
All that work, all the stress, all that pain—he could take it. He would take it.
For as long as he could take it.
His body wasn’t the same as it was ten years ago. Twilight was still strong and fit, could still run a marathon if he needed to, could still survive the harsh environments that it needed to endure to preserve the thin veneer of peace between Ostania and Westalis.
But it wasn’t the same.
The fatigue was harder to push through. The bullet wounds were harder to walk off. The stab wounds were harder to ignore. The days weren’t a blur anymore. The events stretching for longer, slower, farther than his mind wanted to process.
It wasn’t easy to keep the horrors and fears at bay anymore.
The fear that he’s suppressed for years have been gnawing at his brain. He didn’t need them. He worked, overworked, exhausted himself so he wouldn’t have to think of them. But it was there, lingering, waiting for him to crack. Waiting for the perfect time to break him.
He just wanted to sleep.
But he didn’t.
Sleep was dangerous.
Sleep was when the fears came out to get him, trap him, eat him alive. Every time he closed his eyes he could see them: his faults, his failures, his shortcomings.
His memories.
The blaring wails of sirens, the crackle of buildings falling, the permanent smell of iron that lingered in the air and drowned his lungs—he couldn’t forget it. Sleep will never let him forget it.
Forget them.
Arms bent sideways, thousands of shrapnel sticking to their sides. Blood, so much blood, blanketing the ground like a river.
Eyes wide open.
Eyes wide open as the last vestiges of life left them, leaving their bodies there to rot. He couldn’t do anything about them. Couldn’t save them, couldn’t bring them home. Couldn’t remember their faces, their faces, her face—
Deep, deep burgundy staring up at the wide expanse of sky, unblinking, unmoving, not living.
He shook his head, setting the glass down as his hands shook, as his body trembled. Not from the cold of the breeze, but from the ice within his veins. She’s been popping up in his dreams lately, and Twilight was afraid he knew why.
He was attached to her. He was falling in love with her. Might have already fallen for her.
The delicate cadence of her words, the lilt of her voice, the sweet, addicting scent of her skin, the bottomless pit that was her love and devotion to her family—he loved her, knew that, accepted that. Accepted her and all that she was. Knew what she was.
It became a new fear of his.
She was an assassin by trade. Strong, capable, dependable. She wouldn’t get killed easily. He knew that. He knew that and yet the fear of her not coming home anymore was terrifying, overpowering.
Every time someone knocked on the door, every time the phone rang when she wasn’t there, he was afraid. Afraid of the day that someone will come and tell him that his wife was dead.
It would shatter him. Destroy him thoroughly and endlessly. And he wouldn’t be alone in that.
Anya, lovely Anya, would be broken if her beloved mama didn’t come home.
“Loid.”
He stopped, breathed, shaking a little at the breath he didn’t know he was holding as he turned. She stood by the glass doors of the balcony, still in her nightgown, a shawl carefully yet effortlessly draped over her shoulders. The lights were still off, he noted. The moon overhead illuminating her like divinity, taking the last of the air in his lungs away.
Her face was bare. Her long, dark tresses free from its usual bun was. slowly moving with the breeze. Those dark, burgundy eyes of hers washing over him like the comforting stew that she likes to make during the weekends.
Her lips curved up into a small smile, a shyness in her that never went away. One that he always found endearing.
But there was sadness in her eyes.
One that he’s known so well in the past few weeks since the day they revealed themselves to each other.
“Loid.” Her voice was soft, inviting, loving. He never wanted to stop hearing it.
He let out a breath, closed his eyes as he felt her fingers on his shoulders, moving slowly, slowly, until her gentle touch enveloped him within her embrace.
They’ve been doing this since that night. Small touches, brief kisses. Slowly pushing, experimenting, finding out how much the other can take. He didn’t want to fluster her, even though the only thing he wanted was to hold her as much as possible, as long as possible.
“You’re awake.”
“I am.”
“Nightmare?”
He paused, sighed, leaned back as his head rested on her bosom. Nodded.
He felt her cheek rest lightly against his forehead, the softness of her skin taking all that he is and giving him a sense of peace, of safety, of home.
“You’re cold, Loid.”
Was he?
His lips cracked into a smile, turning his head to press deeper into his wife’s chest, earning him a small laugh. Those arms that he adored circled him tighter, closer, the beating of their hearts slowly syncing after one, two, four beats.
They both just breathed.
“I don’t like seeing you like this, Loid.”
“I’m sorry.”
He felt her head shake, felt the warmth of her lips press against his temple over and over and over again, felt the hot air of her breath keeping the autumn chill at bay, felt the vibrations in her chest as she huffed.
“You’re overworking yourself again.”
“I am.”
Her sigh was long, sad, pained. He hated this, hated that he made her go through this. But he didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if he can fix it.
Long fingers slid between his, tangling amidst his digits before he felt a small tug.
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Yor, I—.”
“I’ll stay with you, Loid.”
Bright, cerulean eyes bore into her, yearning, longing for her touch. They don’t sleep together so much, not because they don’t want to (they want to, so desperately want to), but because they wanted to take it slow.
Too slow, if Franky was to judge.
She stayed with him in his roughest hours, in the nights when he woke up screaming, scratching, heart beating fast, so fast, the he forgot how to breathe. He found out quickly that he needed her, needed her the way he needed oxygen. While Anya gave him peace, Yor gave him safety, a safety that he didn’t know he could ever deserve.
Arguing with her when her mind’s already set was futile, he knew, smiling once again when he thought she was shy and demure when they first started their “pretend” relationship. While she was shy at times, he did appreciate the way she would take matters into her own hands. Appreciated it when she took the weight off of his shoulders, even for a short amount of time.
Slowly, she pulled him up from his place on the chair, pulled him into another embrace. Strong, lithe arms that held him as if he was the most precious being in the world. Arms that would always be able to keep him from spiraling down the darkest depths of his mind.
It was a promise, he knew, a promise that she’d do her everything just to protect them.
She swayed them a little, humming a tune that sent vibrations all throughout his chest. He was a head taller than her, a little fact that he loved so much, loved the way she fit against the angles of his body perfectly, loved the way he could envelop her in his entirety.
It was these little things that has kept him sane in these past few months. It was a relief to come home to someone who knew who he was, someone who accepted all that he was.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Like a cat, they made their way to his bedroom. She didn’t make a sound, a feat that will never not impress him.
The apartment was quiet, save for the soft thrum of Bond’s snoring. Anya was still in bed, a relief to her as she finished the mountain of homework that she hoped to get done to free her weekend.
They could have gone to her room, but Yor led them to his. It was because he had the bigger bed, she said, but he knew she liked sleeping there because his scent stuck to the covers and pillows.
The darkness in the bedroom made him stop, his body going rigid as the anxiety once again grasped his mind with its freezing tendrils. He can’t be here. He can’t sleep, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t let the fears get to him.
His breath was shaky, eyes a fraction wider than it was moments again.
He can’t see her like that again, can’t see her lifeless, can’t see her gone. He can’t, just can’t. He would break. Anya would break. The family he worked so hard to build would break.
No, no, no, he couldn’t do this. They could do something else. He still had paperwork to do, still had reports to finish. They could go—
Screaming. Someone’s screaming. Why were they screaming?
Eyes wide open. Blood, so much blood. Screaming, sirens wailing, bombs exploding.
‘Papa, mama’s not breathing!’
Anya, god Anya no.
She was tiny, so tiny, as she grasped her mother’s hand. Her small hands shaking her mother’s lifeless body.
Yor.
Yor, please.
Darling, come back to me.
‘You were supposed to protect them, Twilight.’
I know.
‘You didn’t.’
No.
‘You failed.”
I didn’t—
“I’ve got you.”
His breathing stilled as his head whipped towards her direction.
Felt his heart stop when he realized he was gripping her.
In one tug he had her in his arms, grasping, desperate for her touch, soothing at the spot where he hurt her. As if understanding, she let her arms rest over his hips, holding him in place.
“I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“I hurt you.”
“I’m not fragile, Loid.”
Yor. Yor was here. She was here, with him, holding him, grounding him. Yor. His Yor.
He let her nudge him into the mattress, let her position him in such a way that she could hold him still, hold him close.
She used his soap again, the distinct musk mixing into her natural scent left him intoxicated.
“Sleep.”
He wanted to, wanted it to so much. Just to rest without the nightmares, to rest without the fears. But they always came back to haunt him, to hurt him. They never went away no matter how much he tried.
“I can’t.”
“I won’t leave you.”
And she won’t. He knew she won’t. Knew full well that she would rather tear a limb off rather than leave her family.
He glanced up, up, meeting her hooded eyes, saw the way she smiled at him, saw the way her crimson orbs sparkle against the sudden moonlight that peered through the window. Her hands wandered across his back, gentle, so gentle, deft hands leaving soothing circles whenever they stopped.
Twilight breathed in, out, slowly, purposefully. He can sleep. He won’t lose her. She won’t leave him.
Repeated it over and over.
She was humming, making him smile as the familiar tune hung in the air, spreading heat faster into his bones. He could feel himself falling, eyes blinking, zeroing in on the scar she got from the cruise ship.
He frowned at the memory. All three of them were there, yet she had to fight so many people all at once. Had to deal with them without him. Heart constricting, he adjusted, pushing his face to press farther into her chest, nuzzling into her bosom before pressing open kisses against the scar.
He trusts her with all of his being, but it still hurt to think that she gets hurt every time she goes to her missions. How many times has she came home with wounds that he didn’t notice? How much pain has she endured in her lifetime that she can effectively hide them from him without much effort?
He wanted to keep her within his sight, within his arms, but it was selfish. He couldn’t trap her here. He couldn’t do that to her.
Did she think of this too whenever he went out the door?
“Loid.”
“Hm?”
“You’re thinking too much.”
He huffed before gently nipping her skin, teeth grazing again the scar he was so lovingly kissing moments earlier. “Am not.”
A soft laugh once again reverberated out of her as she pressed her lips against his hair. He could listen to it for hours, days, weeks. Forever. His skin prickled with a light sheen of embarrassment, making him hold on to her tighter, mindful of the pressure now.
Rough, calloused hands roamed her skin, over the swell of her hips, the pads of his fingers exploring underneath her nightgown. There were scars there, scars that he hasn’t memorized yet. So many not dissimilar to his own, so many that depicted the years that she endured in such a profession.
She was strong, he believed that. Believed that she would be able to take care of herself and get herself home back to them. Back to him. Back to Anya. But still he worried. He had to accept that he will forever be worried.
Accepted that she would have to live through that same worry.
Letting out a shuddered breath, Twilight closed his eyes. He didn’t want to focus on this anymore, at least for the time being. Life was short. Time was fleeting, He was adamant on spending the rest of the night like this with her. Content of just laying down in the middle of the night being cradled by the woman who understood his heart, who accepted his being. Comforted by the fact that she would stay.
She would stay.
In his dreams that night, there were no gunshots. No sirens. No bombings. No blood.
No image of his daughter crying.
No image of his wife deceased.
It was dark. It was quiet.
It was peace.