Work Text:
Twilight wakes up with his head empty.
It's a bit later than the time he usually wakes up at, the clock on the bedside table tells him. Someone has already opened the curtains, which lets the morning sunlight warm the bed he's still laying at. There's a delicious smell seeping into the room. He can hear faint conversations happening outside the bedroom door, completing the image of a perfect morning for an average family man.
He understands that he's panicking.
He tries to remember the details of his current mission. Empty. Tries to recall targets, goals to stress for the day. None. Tries to remember any codes he got from last night, maybe from before that, anything that will clue him in on his plans for the day. Zero. Zip. Nada.
He reaches the only possible conclusion: Twilight, the perfect Westalis spy who never rests, is jobless for the day.
He throws his blanket to the side, making it to the door before he can think much more of it. No, because he can't make sense of it. Any of it. He slams the door open, and someone yelps. The voice is from the kitchen. He sprints there; again, without thinking.
Yor looks back at him with a mildly alarmed expression. She has one hand on the grip of the pan, lifting it up from the fire to keep the egg from burning. The fire for the pot beside it is already off. Anya jumps down from her kiddie stool, holding a bowl and the soup ladle. Bits of soup are slowly dripping from the overturned ladle to the floor. Twilight jolts when something brushes past his feet, only to then see that it's just Bond, coming from the living room to take care of the puddle on the floor.
"Papa? Did you have a nightmare?" Anya asks, earnestly concerned. Twilight blinks.
It all slams back at him like a train in high speed—the end of Operation Strix, the reveal of their identities, the state of their "fake family" status. Or the continuation of it, despite everything else. Or maybe in spite of everything else. He remembers them hugging, and Anya crying, and Yor crying, and him thinking that this can't be real. He realizes he's thinking that again, right now. That none of this can possibly be happening.
"Oh," Anya's face turns to disappointment, and she climbs her stool again. "It's okay, Mama, it’s just Papa's thoughts having a crisis again."
"Crisis?!" Yor exclaims. She turns off the stove and leaves the egg unattended after all. Twilight startles when she moves to stand in front of him, her hands cupping his cheeks, her gaze intense. She looks him over like she can diagnose whatever it is that's wrong with him just by staring.
"Are you okay? Are we in danger? I thought everything is safe now." She frets. When he can't find an answer fast enough, her gaze darkens. "Do you need me to take care of things? People?"
That snaps his mouth back to action, at least. "No!" He balks. His hands flail uselessly, like they're not connected to his head yet. Or maybe it's his head that's still all over the place, that cannot decide what to do with his limbs and his reactions. He got surprised two times this morning, already. He decides that the safest course of action right now is to answer each of Yor's inquiries before she takes unnecessary drastic measures. "No murder, please. Everything's okay. No one's in danger. It's safe."
She sighs in relief. When her body slumps, the light also comes back to her eyes. It baffles him that it's that easy to convince her that they have everything under control. That she immediately reverts back to spluttering in embarrassment from the fact that her hands are on his cheeks, all murderous intent gone.
"Sorry, sorry, I—ah! The egg!" She seems more than happy to find an excuse to turn around from him. When they both look back at the kitchen, though, Anya already has the egg handled. She holds the plated egg with an unimpressed expression.
"Papa and Mama are flirting again."
"We're not!" Twilight and Yor both yell at the same time. Anya just shrugs.
"Can we have breakfast now?" Anya hops to the dining table, balancing a tray of breakfast along with her steps. Twilight has to quash the thought of snatching the wobbly thing from her as soon as it appears, because she immediately shoots him a heated glare. He really should start getting used to that by now.
"Why don't you go wash your face first?" Yor rubs his forearm. The gesture and her smile are as gentle as the sound of chirping birds from outside. "I'll prepare your coffee. And I'll stop Bond from eating all of our food."
"Okay," seems like the only viable response to that. Twilight rubs his face, feeling tired all of a sudden. "I'll—I'll be back soon."
"We're not going anywhere, Papa," Anya says from the dining table. "But Anya's hungry, so quick quick."
He huffs and shakes his head.
The water from the tap is cold against his skin, and when he looks at the mirror he doesn't know what to think of himself. He's supposed to be Twilight, WISE's best agent, the most competent in the field. Except the field is no longer as active as it was, and his service is no longer needed. He has achieved his duty. Peace has been obtained. The war is over, hopefully never to come again.
So why is it, when he stares at his reflection, his head is raging a war louder than it ever has before?
Loid Forger stares back at him, offering no answer.
When he arrives at the dining table, Anya is giving him a heavy stare. He raises an eyebrow. Ah. He wonders if the bathroom is within Anya's ability range. She looks down to the table at that thought, which is enough confirmation.
"Papa is Papa," she mumbles. Yor looks at him in silent question, one he also has no answer to. "Papa will always be the best papa in the world. Anya want Papa to believe that."
The words are infused with the perfect concoction of bashfulness and conviction only a child can manage. It's filled with so much trust and dependence, with all of Anya, that Twilight has no choice but to smile and pat her hair. There is a tightness in his jaw where he's actively trying to stop his lips from quivering.
"It's okay," he says; you can stop pretending, he continues inside his head. But to this, Anya shakes her head vigorously. She jumps from the dining chair and crashes at his feet, hugging tightly.
"Anya's serious!" she yells, still with that same tone. He can feel her body start to tremble, and he crouches so he can hug her properly. Bond nuzzles at them from the side with a whine. "Anya's tired of pretending. But this Anya never pretend. Papa really is the best papa! Papa is real!"
When Twilight exhales, it's all too shaky. Too maskless. He is very compromised. He got way too attached. All of this, none of this is anything he can afford.
"I still don't really know what this is all about," Yor's voice brings him back to the present. She kind of has that effect on him. She crouches on the side not occupied by Bond, completing their little circle. "But Anya is right. No more pretending, huh?"
She kisses Anya's cheek, perfectly stopping her shaking. Then, in one brave moment, she lands one on Twilight's. There for a second, then gone. He stares at her, in something like awe or embarrassment or disbelief, he's not sure himself. Unfortunately, she's moved to hiding her face in Anya's hair, busying herself by hugging them. With a normal human level of strength, fortunately.
"Papa's here and he's real, yeah?" She squeezes his shoulder, and he is so, so compromised, but there is no mission to hypothetically fail this time, is there? "And he's the best. He always does his absolute best."
Bond borfs quietly, like he's joining in on the conversation. Twilight isn't the best at interpreting dog language, but he doesn't think that was a disagreement.
He bows his head down and tries to equate compromised to being vulnerable, and begins another try of rewriting the blare of danger into trust.
"Good afternoon, or should I say, good evening, Loid."
Twilight raises an eyebrow, even as he echoes the greeting. He fumbles in changing Handler to Sylvia, but not enough to be noticed by untrained ears. Which he dearly hopes everyone in the vicinity to be, because they're meeting at a completely public spot. A coffee place beside the river, its inside bustling with employees and customers alike. Not one of WISE’s property. Handler is waiting for him on one of the tables outside, the place shaded by the shop's awning. She doesn't look out of place, between the businessmen and women taking their lunch break.
Which is another one of his concerns: he didn't have time to assess the place and the people present around them. Handler finally agreed to meet him after weeks of pestering her, through phone calls and codes and whatnot, and he just went with her terms without question so to not ruin his chances. Which were weird terms, in his opinion. To meet outside and not in their base like this, to speak as Loid Forger and Sylvia Sherwood.
"Sit. Order something." She waves her hand dismissively. Twilight flags down a waiter and orders an americano, determined to get to the issue as quickly as possible.
"How's the family?" Clearly, Handler has a completely different idea.
"They're fine," he answers, even though he shouldn't have to, because, "I gave you a report last week."
"Hm," she says, sipping on her own cup. Twilight's right eyebrow twitches. "Just asking for the latest update."
He knows Handler is trying to get on his nerves. She's successful, but he won't give her more satisfaction by showing it outwardly. "As I said through the telephone just a few days ago, they're doing good. Anya is doing her best at school. Yor is ironing out the last wrinkles from her old connections. Bond asks for walks and food all the time." He pauses to thank the waiter bringing him his coffee. He waits until the guy slips into the shop again before continuing. "And you've stopped giving me missions."
"Did I now?"
"Acting stupid don't suit you," he bites.
"I don't know, I thought you were complaining about your workload a while back. We got peace, in case you missed the memo."
"You and I both know peace doesn't mean there's no more work."
"For you, there really isn't. You're way too overqualified."
Twilight grits his teeth. Handler immediately smirks, which shows he fails to conceal it well enough. He remembers all the time WISE has assigned him mundane errands on top of life-threatening, more important missions. Back to back without breaks. Bullshit. "Never stopped you before."
The smirk slips off her face when she rolls her eyes. "What is it that you're looking for, Twilight?" she asks. Her eyes behind the tinted lenses are daggers and muzzles, and they push him to a corner. "Because it's not missions. You're more preoccupied with other things to care about missions."
"What other things? Operation Strix is done. I don't have other missions." He denies automatically.
"Acting stupid don't suit you." Handler parrots. Twilight's finger taps his knee under the table, an arrhythmical thing that isn't any code. She puts her cup down and taps the rim, calm tempo to counter his agitation. "Come on, Twilight. Tell me, what more is it that WISE can give you? What is it that you're still seeking for?"
"I'm looking for a job."
"You’re not." Handler dictates. She's making a face that says it pains her to spell it all out for him. That she thought they’re way past this phase already.
Twilight wants her to spell it all out, if she thinks he should be doing anything different than his job. If whatever it is she's saying is supposed to be truer for him than what he has in mind. "What is it that you think I should be doing, then?"
Handler looks at her half-full latte, like all the answers are written there, and Twilight is just being particularly dense for not being able to see it. He follows her gaze to fall at the brown liquid. He finds nothing. He feels as though he's back to being a green agent again, trying to decipher Handler's clues and cues, trying to arrive at the correct conclusion that she never hands out freely.
He has one guess.
"You're disposing of me."
Handler clicks her tongue. Wrong answer, then. "You're way too good to simply be 'disposed of’. Or are you saying you're now big enough of an idiot that the option is on the table?"
Twilight stares at her, all passiveness and calculation. "Am I not?"
She groans. Her glasses jostle when she rubs the bridge of her nose. "I forgot how exhausting it is to have you directly under my care."
He waits for her to finish grumbling nonsense under her breath. When she finally takes a deep breath and removes her glasses, a rare appearance of Sylvia Sherwood stares back at him. She still has that same sharp edges and hardheadedness of Handler’s. But there's something different that's also present, something that her work persona doesn't allow to show. Twilight shifts on his seat, in front of her painfully understanding look.
"If, for whatever reason, it's my permission that you're looking for, you already have it."
He has to remove his eyes from hers. He can't bring himself to ask what permission, because at that point even he knows that's just him being purposefully dense.
She's giving him the permission to stop.
In front of this version of Sylvia, the nameless man from before Twilight existed emerges in return. He's still the same as before—simply existing to grapple for anything to hold on to. He's afraid he won't find anything once again. "I don't know anything but this."
"But you know," he finds that Sylvia is more lenient than Handler to leave out breadcrumbs for the conversation. "You've found one."
The faces of Anya and Yor appear unbidden in his mind. Anya, enraptured in front of her cartoon; Yor, puttering around the kitchen; Bond, taking up all the space on the sofa. They're waiting for him to come home. "I can keep one without discarding the other."
"But will your heart be able to split to be in both?"
He looks at her again. Sharp. Twilight again. She tilts her head and says nothing. "You people keep insinuating that I'm slipping, but even during Operation Strix I did my other missions well enough."
She sighs, and with that she's Handler again. An irritated and exhausted one. She picks up her folded glasses and taps the corner to the table. I-d-i-o-t. Twilight refuses to comment on this. "Maybe I am the one slipping. New recruits can't know I hand out answers like this."
He doesn’t remind her they won’t need new recruits anymore. He waits for her to hand out the answer. She never does. She puts her glasses back on, leans back on her seat, and folds her arms. Looks at him head on. Challenges him, like he is indeed still a rookie.
"Face it, Twilight," she orders. She finishes the rest of her coffee in one gulp, and swiftly stands up. Their conversation is over. "I would fire you if I can, but officially I'm not allowed to. So come back to me when you're done with your resignation letter."
Twilight frowns and looks down. So he is being disposed of. He won't change his mind about his decision to keep his family, but now he wonders if there's anything he could've done differently, to keep his job as a spy. If somewhere along the way he slipped too hard than he should and fell too far than he should.
It's hard to admit the fact that he knows he does—he's fallen too hard and too far for his supposed fake family.
There's rustling, and then there's a bag on the table. It's Anya's favorite brand of peanuts, one they already have piles and piles of back at home. He finds Handler's face again, and is met with Sylvia's even rarer smiles. He can pinpoint the curves that she currently shares with Yor whenever she looks at Anya. A mother that just wants a family to be happy.
"Send Anya and Yor my regards." She puts her hat on, so he can't see her expression anymore. She starts walking away without looking back. "I'll see you around, Loid."
Twilight grips at his cup of untouched coffee and wonders if he could give Sylvia what she asked of him.
"Congrats on the unemployment."
It's only been a few days since Twilight handed in his resignation letter, and here Franky is, giving him that comment first thing after calling him for a meetup. He gives the informant a halfhearted glare. Franky just snickers behind his little cashier area, clearly enjoying himself. He passes Twilight a can of soda, which he never asked for, but cracks open anyway. "I still work at the hospital."
"Ooh, still an illegal doctor, I see."
"I actually got my license for real this time. Fast track on WISE's private company. Only the year is faked."
That immediately destroys Franky's good mood. "Bah. I keep forgetting you're an insufferable genius." He complains. He leans back on his seat and stares at his shop's ceiling with an all suffering expression. "The world is so unfair."
Twilight sips at his soda to hide his small smile. He decides to indulge Franky this once. "How's your… romantic escapades going?"
"Oh, of course I found a beautiful woman who I got close to and accepted my proposal and now we are going to live happily ever after." Franky flips him the bird. "It's going."
"Going nowhere, then."
"I don't wanna hear that from the married man who only realized he has a wife who he's actually in love with a few years after his marriage."
Twilight looks away. He sips on the soda a little bit louder than he should, which causes Franky to bark an ugly laugh. That's just how he is, mood changing faster than Twilight can transform his face.
"You're hopeless!" Franky bellows. "And to think I was here reminding you not to get attached. Look at you right now!"
Twilight rolls his eyes. "Did you just call me here to make fun of me?"
"I believe that's what people do in graduation parties, so yes." Franky pulls out another can of soda and cracks it open for himself. He makes a self-satisfied look when Twilight looks at him in confusion.
He realizes that he now has no reason to contact Franky under the guise of asking help for a job, since he has resigned. It causes a pang to resound inside his chest. They started off as agent and informant, and officially speaking they are only that. Still, somewhere along the line Twilight has come to consider the man his friend. Perhaps the only one really befitting of the title, the one that knows more part of him than the majority of people who call him friend do.
"Aw, so it hasn't sunk in yet," Franky grins. "You really are attached."
"Shut it," Twilight tells him off. He leans his back on the counter so he doesn't have to look at Franky. People fill the sidewalk, briskly walking past without a care that Twilight's little bubble is slowly deflating again. "So you're just here to annoy me one last time."
"Hey, I'm not dying, you know," Franky scoffs. "And I don't think you have plans to die, either. No need to sound so miserable."
There’s the sound of something being slammed to wood, and when he glances down, there’s a card on the counter. Only when he picks it up does he know it’s just a piece of paper, probably ripped from another cheap notebook. There’s a line of numbers written in Franky’s nasty scribbles.
“The personal one,” Franky explains without being asked. “Careful with that, that’s exclusive. Only close family members have it. And my future girlfriend.”
Twilight ignores the warming feel inside him. “What I’m hearing is that you don’t have any friends.”
“Like you have any say, you asshole.” Franky tries to reach for the paper again. Twilight simply raises his hand so it’s out of his reach. “Fuck you! Give that back if you’re just gonna insult me! Then you’re never gonna find out where I am!”
Twilight abruptly turns around, making Franky fall on his back with another round of profanities. He raises an eyebrow at the informant. “Are you leaving the store?”
“So self centered. When I said graduation party, you don’t think you’re the only one graduating, do you?”
Twilight manages to keep his mouth from falling open. “You’re stopping too? Why?”
“Feels lonely if I’m gonna be here without you around anymore, y’know.”
Twilight stares at him, unimpressed. Franky snorts.
“Geez, a guy can’t have some fun.” Franky stands up and dusts his clothes. He sits back on his stool, pushes his glasses up with a proud look. “This tech company said one of my prototypes got potential. Not that my other prototypes don't, my ideas are just way ahead of their thinking. But anyways! They’re considering of approving the funding if I can improve the model. Which I will! All I need to do is—“
“You can’t do it here?” Twilight interrupts before Franky can go into another one of his convoluted tech rambles. Franky sees through it, of course, but he spares him the trouble of listening to the details by just a scoff.
Franky sits at his stool, sips at his soda, and takes his time. Twilight lets him stew in his little, rare, thoughtful silence until he continues speaking again.
“I’m planning on visiting my aunt,” Franky shrugs, like this information is nothing, like this isn’t the very first time Twilight is hearing about Franky’s existing family member. “Found that she’s alive a while back. Lived in a little farm in the countryside. Nobody else from the family made it, apparently. She said we both must got lucky.” Franky finishes his can, and pulls out another two. Beer, this time. “Personally, I don’t really see the luck in living a lonely life like that. But she’s old enough and I’m not about to ruin her day.”
Twilight’s not sure how to respond to that. For all of his experience in getting around people and saying what is expected of him to get on their good side, he’s not sure what is the correct response to this one. ’I see’ sounds insensitive. ’At least she’s alive’ is rubbing salt on wound. ’My condolences’ is not enough; will never be enough, for anyone touched by war. He’d know that best.
“Just remember to send apples, then.” He settles on. He gives Franky a smile. An unsaid ’thank you for sharing this with me’. “Anya would love peanuts more, but I doubt anyone invests on a farm of peanuts.”
Franky grins. Twilight can decipher the appreciation it contains. “Agreed. But if she heard a little girl likes peanuts that much, she just might start replacing the peach trees before I can arrive there.”
Twilight huffs. Peaches, huh? “When that happens, you can invite us for a field trip, then. Sounds like your aunt will have Anya and Bond admiring her farm.”
“Ha! It’s always Anya this and Yor that and Bond this with you.”
Twilight retaliates by throwing his empty can to Franky’s head. It bounces off his curls and falls right into the trashcan. He ignores Franky’s indignant yell and swiftly catches the can of beer thrown at his face.
“You can’t pay me to get outta this one, by the way.” Franky grumbles. “You gotta seriously stop doing that.”
Twilight rubs the condensation on the can. “Do what?”
“Avoiding,” Franky drawls. Twilight looks at him, at Franky in his little shop, which will probably be closed soon. Franky, who has his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm, and the serious look on his face. “Running away.”
Twilight studies the condensation further.
Franky sighs. “Look, good job on listening to Handler. Real great baby steps.”
“Thanks,” Twilight says drily.
“But you’re still not committed to it!” Franky barrels on. Heatedly, might Twilight note. “You’re still closing yourself off! Hiding shit!”
Twilight tilts his head. Smiles, this one purposefully pasted on. “Everything already got revealed during the last fight.”
“That—“ Franky shakes his head. Clearly at a loss for words. He puts his face on his palms and mutters something under his breath. First Sylvia, then Franky. The people he’s closest with in WISE tend to do that these days. Twilight lets Franky slap him on the arm. “Listen here, you piece of shit. You think Anya and Yor only care about Loid and they chose to stay just because they pretend Twilight never existed?”
Twilight frowns. “Aren’t they?”
Twilight’s not proud to say that he jumps a bit when Franky screams. The shorter man starts hitting his arm more, harsher than before. He lets Franky release the frustration, even as he himself yells in irritation, “What is all this for?!”
“For being an idiot!” Franky lands one last blow on the back of his hand. Twilight rubs it afterwards, more out of finding something to do than out of actual pain. “No wonder Handler is so done with you.”
“Why do you and Handler talk about me when I’m not around?”
Franky ignores him to point at Twilight’s nose. “Aren’t you supposed to be a therapist?”
“Psychiatrist,” he corrects.
“Whatever. You should know this. You just don’t wanna face it.”
Twilight swats Franky’s finger away from his face. This is pissing him off. “If you know so much, say it, then. You’re not Handler. Spell it all out to my face.”
“Fine! I will, jackass!” Franky pushes himself up to the counter, so they’re now face to face. Twilight briefly wonders how this scene would look like for pedestrians passing by. His wandering thought is silenced by Franky’s low tone. “I think you’re a coward. I think you should talk to your family. Really talk, without all that calculations going on inside your head. Without more lies. I think you should let yourself rely on others.”
Franky suddenly headbutts him, effectively making him recoil. He hears Franky’s disgruntled sniff on top of his own pained groan. “I think you should believe it when people say they care for you. That their actions are without ulterior motives.”
Twilight stays bowed down with his hand on his forehead.
When he hasn’t responded for a bit, Franky exhales a long breath. Twilight can’t offer anything to console him. “At least try, would you?” There’s the sound of a can opening. Then another, and this one pushed in front of him. “I’d say take your time, but this is clearly killing you. It’s getting annoying. Get your shit together.”
Twilight can’t help his sneer and the glare he sends Franky. “Real motivational.”
“You’re welcome. Call me when you need another reality check. I won’t hold back.”
And that’s how Franky is, isn’t he? He won’t hold back. If Sylvia speaks in codes, Franky speaks in exclamations and physical violence. And money too, for the most part. But the point is, he’s loud enough to get the message through Twilight’s thick skull.
Still, knowing a thing is true and believing said thing is true is a whole different matter.
He follows Franky in picking the can of beer. It’s not as cold now, after all their arguing. So for his next dialogue, Twilight doesn’t think it over before he says it. “For another try?”
Franky laughs. All-suffering and very-done. Fond, and proud, all in the same breath. His oldest confidant, still here, after everything. He tries not to let it all choke him. It doesn’t. It’s warm, like the hugs he keeps getting, that he still struggles to interpret as gestures of affection, genuinely meant for him.
“For families, then,” Franky raises his can. “For peace.”
Twilight prefers red wine, really. This beer is cheap; tastes that way, too. It is a very pleasant toast. Their graduation is no farewell.
“Yor-san, do you want anything particular for dinner?”
When there’s no answer, Twilight looks up from the fridge. There’s noise from Yor’s room, so she’s definitely not sleeping. Weird of her to not answer, then. He moves from the kitchen to the hallway, and sees that her room is open. He ignores the implication of what that means—for her to leave the door to her private room open, for her to not turn around in panic when he stands in front of the doorway.
“Yor-san?” He knocks on the opened door along with the call. She finally turns her head to look over her shoulder. He takes note of all the boxes scattered around her room. The weapon in her hands glints against the sunlight as her body twists.
“Ah, Loid-san,” Yor greets back. She doesn’t move to hide the weapon. She still looks a bit worried, though. “Is Anya-san back already?”
“No, not yet. I was going to ask you about dinner.”
“Oh, sorry! Did you need my help?” Her head turns here and there. At the dangerous, definitely lethal mess that is her room. Now she does look panicked. “Um, I’m sorry but I'm not done yet with sorting these—”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Yor-san, it’s totally fine." He stares at the boxes already carefully wrapped to the side. There's a lot more empty boxes left, which he assumes means there's also still a lot more weapons to store. "You're putting them away?"
"I—yes," Yor twists the golden icepick in her hands. It's weird to see her like this, her in her casual clothes, but holding her weapon. "I—I don't think I can throw them away just yet. But I think I feel okay with storing them somewhere else for now. I think I want to." She nods, once, resolutely. She starts wrapping the piece of metal in her hands with a cloth. Neat and methodical. She puts it with the others in the box. "Sorry, Loid-san, I'll help you with dinner in a bit."
"We can just order takeout for today." He decides on a whim. Yor pauses her work, turning to look at him once more. He shifts on his feet, takes another half second before finally voicing out, "Do you want any help here?"
One thing he has noticed about Yor since a long time ago is how open she is with her expressions. When she feels something, it will show on her face. It used to be just a valuable advantage for him, to be able to understand what she thinks without having to put too much energy into deciphering subtle ticks and unconscious body languages. Now, it just means he is privy to a series of her thought process: horror, doubt, worry, slowly smoothing out—until her face is left soft and her expression is simply peace. This is Yor Briar-Forger, in all of herself, with all of her vulnerability in display, letting Twilight see. Trusting him with leaving her door open.
He freezes under the weight of it all. Now, of all times, is when he gets uncertain.
"Sure," and here she is letting him in. She has seen him, and she is giving him permission to step closer. "That way we can finish quicker for dinner, right?"
He has to swallow before he can answer. "You're right." He gives the room another look. Yor, illuminated by the setting sun from the window, the weapons in sealed boxes around her. The room is open and he steps in. "Well then, pardon the intrusion."
"Ah, be careful though, Loid-san!" Yor starts fretting, her hands flailing around. She seemingly starts to produce weapons out of thin air around her room, removing them to make way for him to get inside and for him to have a place to sit. "I mean, I'm sure you know the dangerous things to avoid. But still, please be careful! I don't want anything to hurt you."
He chuckles, following the track Yor has made for him. His seat is next to her spot on the floor, and like this they have their backs against each other. "I'll keep that in mind."
They start working, back to back, in companionable silence. Twilight copies how Yor wraps her weapons. She directs him to the less deadly ones to handle, because there are evidently more weapons than he thought there would be. This is almost rivaling his.
She doesn't seem to worry about having her back to him. Surprisingly, he finds himself reciprocating the feeling. He doesn't see the need to constantly keep his back guarded. Not to her.
"It's kind of crazy to think I'm putting these away," Yor starts speaking. She is standing after just turning the lights on, since the sunlight is no longer sufficient for them to see clearly anymore. There is nostalgia and wonder all mixed up in her eyes. "This was all I know. To sustain both myself and Yuri, since we were children." She leans down, picks a pack of needles from the floor. From the way she's handling them, poisonous. "To think that I now have the option… to stop."
He understands her quiet disbelief more than he can articulate. So he doesn't. He just nods and continues to pack Yor's weapon away. She seems to understand anyway, as she sits in front of him and slowly pulls the box from him.
"Do you have any regrets, Loid-san?"
He meets her eyes. She is being serious. She asks the question not because she doesn't know the answer, but because she wants to hear it from him.
He is, however, still struggling with the same old problem. His tongue twists so that the simple answer comes out as, "Do you?"
Yor smiles. She understands, always. Another thing they share: they were children affected by war. "Is there a way to wash the blood away, Loid-san?"
He matches her smile, and the hollowness of her eyes. "I haven't really figured out a way, no."
Yor huffs, not out of disappointment. She picks something from the side. It's a pin of a grenade. Something weird to keep among her array of weapons at the ready. The active weapons, now being sealed in cardboard boxes. A little pin, the presence of it in a grenade meaning the safety of everyone around and the soldiers handling it. The removal of it meaning destruction.
Yor fiddles with it. Her hands are full of scars. She handles it gently, the way she hugs Anya gently, the way she ruffles Bond gently, the way she lets him keep his silence gently. "Do you… regret this?"
She puts the pin around her ring finger. Oh. It's that grenade pin.
There is something surreal about all of this. About Yor, and her flaring insecurity, tamped down by the buzzing lights overhead. About Twilight, and his incessant overthinking, softened by the sound of the TV he forgot to turn off from the other room. About an assassin and a spy, dropping their jobs, dropping their guards, sitting in a cramped room together. About how Anya and Bond can come home anytime now, escorted by the Blackbell's butler.
Twilight digs into his pocket. Anya had a homework of making macrame crafts, and he helped her earlier that day. She made an ambiguously bracelet-shaped thing. He… made a bracelet, and another of a smaller diameter. The diameter of a ring.
When you actually mean to say something, it gets harder to say them.
"Never once regretted it," he turns the braided ring around his finger. Yor doesn't see it, eyes still glued to the floor from his too long pause. "Never will. Yor-san, I will repeat this for as many times as you need to hear it. You are a great mother to Anya, and I… couldn't ask for a better wife."
And he truly can't. It's unthinkable, to consider someone else replacing Yor, just as unthinkable it is to consider someone else replacing Anya. Yor finally looks up, and she startles at the sight of the ring he's holding.
Would it be weird for a couple to have multiple wedding rings? They hold different meanings, after all. One picked in the heat of the moment, chosen for a mission, slotted in along with an explosion. One picked in an all too fancy jewelry store, chosen for a façade, slotted in to satisfy others' eyes.
Wouldn't it be fitting for them, after all, to have another one? To have one crafted in a mundane afternoon, chosen to declare the feelings they mean, and slotted in as a promise?
"May I?" he asks, with a voice that learned to be gentle from being with a family. The family that taught Twilight many things. The family that taught him that it's okay to keep this fragile thing simply because he treasures it. It is for that family that when Yor, body trembling too hard for her to speak, nods, he pulls out the grenade pin and pushes in the macrame ring to her finger. It's loose on Yor's slender finger, and immediately gets wet when her tears start falling.
Twilight wipes her tears with his scarred, gentle hands, and lets himself soften. He lets himself be Loid, except all of Loid's actions are his. These are Loid's feelings for Yor. These are Twilight's feelings for Yor. They overlap. They are the same.
"Yor… Yor," he drops the honorific, and means it when he asks, one more time, "will you continue to be my wife?"
This is me. All of me. Will you stay?
Yor's tears continue to slip from his fingers. She holds his hands with her trembling ones. When she turns her face to kiss the palm of his hand, he starts to match her tremors, too. Yor, and her sweet smile, and her red red face.
Something inside his chest is beating too hard and his stomach flip flops and his face feels hot.
"Loid," Yor laughs, and it's wet, and it's beautiful; she is beautiful the way a deadly flower is beautiful, the way a mother's love is beautiful. She sees Loid and she sees Twilight and she says, "Yes."
As they kiss, Twilight thinks that he'd like to ask for her help right back, when he eventually will clean up his room. He thinks leaving his door open tonight doesn't sound so bad.
Twilight reads over the file one more time. Despite the genius title that's often labeled on him, he still needs some time to comprehend this particular subject. Which, maybe isn't so much from his ineptitude, but more from the fact that even the best people in the field barely know anything about this case. Espers aren't common, after all.
Anya's report of the month. Not for school, but for her powers. They've started doing this since Handler suggested there are trusted doctors in WISE that might be able to help them understand Anya's situation better and make sure they can accommodate for her. After a thorough background check on them from Twilight's part and a very brave Anya agreeing to have a medical checkup every month, here they are. So far, Twilight thinks it has done them a lot of good. Among other things, the ear mufflers get used often anytime Anya's surroundings get too much for her.
But anyways, the report. Apparently Anya's powers are changing—in the sense that they stabilized. The doctors are saying that it's not from their interference more than from Anya on her own. Nothing dangerous. Just new, and possibly even a positive development. They tell him they'll continue keeping an eye on the changes and will keep him updated as usual.
"Can you explain that again," Twilight looks down, finding the cause of the insistent pull on his pant leg making a frustrated frown. "In, in—Leh-mun term."
"Layman's terms," Twilight corrects, ruffling her hair. "I haven't even said anything."
Out loud, that is. He hasn't spoken out loud since he opened the file and started reading on the couch. Anya clearly heard him thinking directly from his mind anyway. It makes him panic, sometimes, the fact that she has access to his unrestrained stream of thoughts. He struggles to comprehend the extent of horrible things he must have unconsciously exposed Anya to. It explains why Anya's the way she is, he supposes, and it's not fully the fault of a spy show from the TV. Between him and Yor, sometimes he feels like he wants Anya to keep her ear mufflers on at all times.
"Anya doesn't listen in that much, now," Anya makes an offended face. Twilight cracks a smile.
"You just responded to my thoughts without me saying anything."
Anya harrumphs. She crosses her hands in front of her chest, and he doesn't resist the urge to ruffle her hair again. "That's because Papa's not saying anything. Usually, Anya choose not to listen in."
"Sure you do," Twilight agrees. He spreads the file on the coffee table, and Anya jumps to sit next to him on the sofa at his inviting pat. Bond continues to sleep on the carpet to the side. "You sure you don't want to wait for Yor to come home before we go through this?"
"Papa can explain again to Mama later." Anya cranes her body to look over the graphs and paragraphs on paper. She's clearly not comprehending anything, but she rubs her chin and nods like she gets it. "I see, I see."
He huffs. She is definitely not seeing. "Do you?"
"Anya would understand it better if Papa explains it too."
Twilight snorts. Anya pouts at him. This, this scares him too, sometimes. The fondness that bubbles out of him very easily and lightly at her simple actions is harder to comprehend than any mission report he has ever handled. So he deals with it the way he deals with most things: by not dealing with it, and move on to things he can handle.
He leans forward to match Anya's posture, and points at the graph that's leaning to be a straight line from its previous random oscillations. "The doctors are saying you're controlling your powers better." He points at the table next to it, at the numbers deviating less as they go further down the list. "You mentioned people's thoughts have been less loud lately, right? That's because your powers are getting more stable."
Anya is still frowning, though. "Anya's powers are disappearing?"
"They're not. I don't think they're going to, from what we know so far." He tries to come up with a comparison to help smooth out the frustrated look on her face. "Hm, think of it this way. As Yor learns to cook more, she stops burning the meals so much." 'Burning' is a very light way to describe Yor's cooking pre-Forger household, but he and Anya already shudder from that, so he settles with it. "Since you've been training your powers, people's general thoughts have bothered you less and you only hear someone's thoughts when you want and choose to."
The training in question being meditation, and therapy, among other things that concerns the mental state more than the physical. A lot of therapy, too, because god knows they need it. It doesn't instantly fix things, no, but he's glad that there's progress, at least. And he's secretly also glad that Anya doesn't have to go through grueling physical training like Nightfall keeps suggesting them.
Anya has a contemplating look on her face now. "Anya can be… normal?"
Twilight frowns. "Who says you aren't normal?"
She shrugs. She doesn't say anything more. Well, that's concerning.
He pokes her cheek. "Hey. You're great as you are, powers or not."
"Doesn't make it normal."
He tilts his head to try getting a look at her face better. Framed by pink mop is a too young face wearing too grim of acceptance for an expression. Something inside him clenches painfully. He takes her tiny tiny hands and encloses them with his large ones.
"Spy and assassin aren't really normal jobs." He rubs the back of her hand. He hates using this to get to her, but, "Were we ever less to you because of that?"
"No!" And there's her defensive anger, the determination in her eyes as she stares at him incredulously. "No, Papa and Mama are always the best!"
"There you have it." He shakes her hands once, in a firm grip. "If you can think of spy and assassin as normal jobs, then you can think of esper powers as normal traits. Becky knows a lot about fashion and Damian takes good care of dogs and Anya can read minds. It doesn't make you any less or any more than them. It's what makes you you."
There's a sniffle from Anya, and Twilight readily catches her when she jumps at him for a hug. He hates it when she cries, more than anything, for any reason at all, so he pats her back and hopes this passes soon.
Sure enough, after just a few minutes she pulls back. She makes one last, very wet inhale, wipes her face furiously with her sleeves, then nods. She's reaching the age where kids don't want to be seen crying, he supposes, because she pats his shoulder and shoots him a look that's maybe supposed to be threatening. He just stares back at her, thoroughly amused.
"Nothing happened just now," she orders with a very serious tone, "understood, Agent Papa?"
He tries to match her seriousness, even though his lips keep twitching upwards. "Aye, aye, Agent Anya."
And her moment is done, and she jumps down from the sofa to open the bag of peanuts already laying on the coffee table. She starts munching, at least sitting down, but very messily nonetheless. He tidies the papers back to its file and just watches her.
He said the last statement on a whim, but now he's thinking about it further. What makes you, you, huh. In his head, it's obvious when applied to Anya. Anya is herself the way children are themselves: loudly and unabashedly, oblivious to how special each of their traits can be seen by others, not yet tampered down by age. She is enthusiastic and emphatic, and she means well. It doesn't always translate well, but she always, always means well.
He thinks about applying it to Yor, and how it's easy to point out what makes Yor herself, too. She comes off as naïve and absentminded to most, but her personality shines brightest when she's in her comfort zone: kind and caring, fierce in her protectiveness. After knowing her other—now former—job, he still can confidently describe Yor with the same words. The Thorn Princess is a role Yor Briar took to keep her family alive. Before the Thorn Princess came to life, Yor Briar already existed.
After all of that comes the million dollar question: what makes him him, then? If Loid Forger was created by Twilight, and Twilight was created by the unnamed man from before then, then which one defines him? Which role is he assuming, right now, as he has all of these warring thoughts, as he stares quietly at Anya munching on her peanuts? Who is he, when he drops his weapons and hands in his resignation letter, when he comes back to a warm house and drops his guard?
"Hey, Anya," Anya makes a questioning noise, making peanuts bits fall around the carpet. The fact that she doesn't comment anything so far means she really does choose not to listen in sometimes. "You knew I lied to you from our first meeting."
Anya turns to look at him. She looks ridiculous, with messy bits around her mouth and raising one eyebrow in an attempt to look serious. It wasn't a question from his part, but she nods anyway. "Yeah. Papa was a big liar."
He ignores the use of past tense. He appreciates that she acknowledges his attempts, but it's still a work in progress. "Does it bother you?"
"Anya thought it was really cool."
He gives her a lopsided smile. He shakes his head. It's so hard, for words to form and for thoughts to be articulated. It's a very difficult mission for him to be genuine. It would be way easier if he just asked Anya to read his mind again, for everything unsaid to be conveyed without the vessel of words. It would be way easier, if he can sit in silence and have what he wants to say, what he really means to say, to be projected to the people he wants to say it to. For his tongue to not be constrained by a language, for feelings to reach without a voice.
But he owes her this much. He owes her his voice. He owes her his honesty, after all his lies. Lies that never fooled her from the first place. He showed her a mask, and she saw past that mask, and still she chose him. Now, she is letting him put on a mask should he want to. Just like Yor, they are letting him keep his silence and steep in his thoughts, and they wait. Their past actions tell him they will keep waiting. They will always wait for him, because they believe he will come home from work and open the door and walk into this house and they want to be there to greet him.
He doesn't want to put on a mask. He doesn't want Loid Forger, the man who is chosen to be incredibly loved, to simply be a mask.
"I mean, does it bother you, that me—as Loid Forger, as your father—didn't exist before?"
Anya stops eating. She scrunches her face, which is her actual serious expression, and stares at him. He wipes the mess around her mouth as a way to not fidget.
"Agent Papa is Papa too, though?" Anya says, like she is confused. No, he thinks she knows exactly what he means and what she actually wants to say, but she's also having trouble voicing it out. The thought makes him smile. "I mean, um. Agent Twilight, and Doctor Loid Forger, are all Papa." She scratches her head. He feels bad, dumping this on her.
"Too much?"
"No, wait, hold on." He does, because just like them, he would wait for them. He would choose to sit here and wait for them. For Yor to finish making tea, for Anya to finish doing her homework, for them to wake up as he makes breakfast so he can greet them in good morning.
So he waits, until Anya’s expression finally clears. "Aha!" She snaps her fingers, or attempts to, because it doesn't make a sound. She points at his face with a triumphant look. "Anya wouldn't be taken in if Agent Twilight didn't choose Anya from the orphanage. Anya wouldn't be living here with a Papa and a Mama if there's no Doctor Loid Forger buying a home here."
She bites her lip, face a little red, and looks to the side. "This family wouldn't continue if Papa didn't choose us."
And that's the answer he's been looking for, isn't it? In simple phrasing of a children's voice, that's the core of it all. A choice. The unnamed child facing a war took up the work of a spy, and people started calling him Twilight. Twilight took up Operation Strix, chose a family, and chose Loid Forger as his mask. Operation Strix ended, and the war ended, and the family stays. Which part of him is left?
Anya and Yor keep trying to tell him that it's all of him.
Is it bad, for him, for Twilight, for the child before that, to want to grow into Loid Forger? To want Loid Forger to not be a mask, but a name he chose, a person he became?
Anya and Yor, and Franky, and Sylvia, keep trying to tell him: it's been him for a while.
So he pulls Anya to his side. Ruffles her hair again, because he can, and because there are bits of peanuts sticking to her hair. She needs to go shower after this. Still, he plants a quick kiss to the top of her head. Just because he can, and because he wants to. He ignores Anya’s happy squeal.
There's something inside him that's settling, quieting down to something resembling peace.
"You're cleaning up the mess," he stands up and stretches. Anya whines in protest, and it startles Bond awake. Yor will come home soon. He rolls his sleeves and moves to the kitchen. "What do you want for dinner?"
The park is crowded by people, as it often does on a bright Sunday morning. Families and friends have their picnic mats opened in shaded areas, and the sound of laughter fills the air as children and their pets run around the open space.
One man stands alone under the shade of a big tree. There are bags on the ground next to him, with a picnic mat sticking out from one of them. He doesn't seem to be in a rush to set it up. His eyes are squinting against the rays of the sun, and if one follows his gaze, they will find a family on the other side of it.
A pink-haired girl, running across the grass with a high-pitched scream that ends in a giggly laugh. A big white dog chasing her, with the clear threat of an eager and wet kiss. A young woman right behind them, calling the girl and the dog with concern, but also with a wide smile on her face. Her long black hair sways behind her as she chases after the two.
"Your family, Sir?" An old man steps next to the man under the shade. His corgi sniffs the other's shoes curiously. "Ah, sorry if I'm butting in, just need a rest from my walk for a bit. Old, tired bones, you see."
The blond looks over and gives him a polite smile. "Oh, no worries. Take your time, please." The old man smiles back, and leans to the tree next to him. "And yes, they are."
The old man chuckles. Sometimes, life is delightful simply because you witness someone else spend their time enjoying it. Sometimes, with age, comes the urge to strike a conversation with a stranger, and compliment them simply because you can. "They look wonderful."
The blond blinks. He looks back to the field; to the girl, the woman, and the dog. They're still chasing each other, contributing to the echoing laughter of the park. Then, the girl trips and falls. The man makes a surprised noise, but doesn't move as the dog and the woman already reached the girl first. They don't seem panicked. When the girl raises her head so they can see her expression again, Anya Forger's dirt-covered face is still open in laughter. Bond licks her face eagerly, while Yor Forger offers her a handkerchief with a smile and a hand to help her up.
The corgi has started licking the blond's shoes. The old man worriedly shoos her off, but the blond just laughs. It's a pleasant laugh, and he assures that his shoes would be fine.
When he smiles, it crinkles the corners of his eyes. The laugh is not forced, and the smile is not a mask, and this man is not a role being played by someone else. Loid Forger watches his family, smiles at the kind stranger, and says, "They are. I'm very lucky."
The old man bids his farewell and continues his walk with his dog. Loid sees that the others are not going to rest if he doesn't call for them. Anya and Bond are too engrossed in their game of tag, and Yor would always spoil them. With a sigh, he steps out from the shade and into the sun, to join his family. It's time for a snack.