Chapter Text
Closer proximity to Yor and Anya was able to make him relax. Okay. The connections were made, he now knew what he needed to do to avoid falling into such a situation. That should have been the end of it.
It should have.
It was…
If the temptation to continue testing the concept with new variables wasn’t so strong.
He had a good alibi for the matter, truly. Basic logic dictated the threat be assessed from many different angles. Knowing that their touch had an effect on him obviously wasn’t enough. Plenty of other things may have an impact on the result— time of day, being at home versus out in public, the other people that might be around, level of stress, air temperature.
The principle would need to be tested under all these circumstances for him to draw accurate readings. There was never such a thing as too much information. He was certain any other agent would come to the exact same conclusion were he to show them his work. (He just wasn’t going to do that. WISE’s top senior operative shouldn’t have to prove himself to anyone, agent or handler or otherwise.)
This was a more than adequate job for him to work on alone. He would find and/or fabricate opportunities to test this out himself and make notes of the results. And when he had all of his data, he could begin formulating a defense against this bizarre weakness he had come across.
It was too bad for him, then, that everything he tried seemed to only grow the problem rather than yield any solutions.
Each attempt at keeping this from going any further just… made it go further. Gentle departing squeezes to Yor’s wrist in the mornings left such insistent tingles on his palm that he’d have to include an extra lap around the building on his way to work to ensure it wore off completely before he entered the office. Anya sat up against him on the couch while they watched her movie made it nearly impossible to focus on the plot, let alone the other work he had intended to sort out mentally while it played. Even Bond had somehow begun taking part in toying with him, becoming uncharacteristically affectionate every now and then, rubbing up by his legs when no one else was around.
The whisky that had been his former solace still eyed him from the corner cabinet, light glinting mockingly off of its decorated bottle. Twilight hadn’t approached it again since that night, nor had he been given the chance to. Both Yor and Anya also seemed to have surprisingly good timing for diverting his attention to something else whenever the urge called him. Very little time was left to consider a drink when so much of it was occupied with family needs and activities.
This was agony.
His work to build up immunity had instead led to a drug of his own creation. He was finding, rather unfortunately, that the outcome was leaning heavier and heavier towards Franky’s favor as he seemed to be doing this less for the sake of the mission and more for simply his own enjoyment of the situation. In all honesty, Twilight was disgusted with himself. Yor and Anya were being used here. Only he was to blame; his incessant need for completion and perfectionism had resulted in this.
So it only made sense that a time would eventually come in which he would take it too far.
Circumstances of the night of the crime, in hindsight, were glaringly plain. The work day had been one of his worse ones, dealing with crisis after crisis, resulting in a lovely little headache taking shots at his temple. As a result, dinner had been simple and quick, leading to him apologetically and slowly heading for the bathroom and then his room, citing exhaustion.
He now lays in bed, exhausted yet unsleeping. The indentation he’s rubbing into the side of his head with his palm isn’t helping things at all. He turns again to the alarm clock perched atop his nightstand. 1:19. Four minutes later than the last time he checked.
The last five hours had consisted of more groaning and rolling around than they had sleeping. Loid finally gets up with a grunt, hating the sharp pressure in his skull that results from the sudden motion, and heads for the door.
He gets about half of the way down the hall, stopping when he hits a crossroads. Three options wait in front of him for a selection, two closed doors here, one further down in the kitchen. The latter would be easy to pick in at this hour, with no one else awake. How simple it would be to quietly remove the stopper, tilting the bottle at an angle for the liquid to soundlessly hit the side of the stunted glass. He’d have a moment to himself, the pain would subside. The glass could be washed and replaced on the shelf before anyone ever knew.
But in the way of that path stands memories. Remembering the quiet tension in the room whenever he had elected to take the scotch down, never punctuated with an argument but still a blunt change to what had existed previously. An obvious knowledge by other family members present that, while they weren’t the direct cause of his actions, their patriarch had been pushed far enough that day that he felt the need to seek out comfort in a drink.
And, more selfishly, the memories of touch over the last several weeks. How the stress would melt off of him whenever he caught the opportunity to lay a hand on a shoulder, sit closer to someone than was proper. The sensation of bad feelings not just being tamped down, but washed away, even for a few minutes. Knowing that whatever hold scotch had on him paled in comparison to the effects of this.
Loid turns clockwise on his heel, trajectory directed away from the kitchen. He makes the selfish choice.
Yor’s door, for some reason, is unlocked. He simultaneously feels a warmth that she is comfortable enough here to set it as such and upset that she would leave herself vulnerable, happy that it gives him access tonight and angry (with himself) that he still thinks this is the best solution. He pushes the oak slab open slowly on its hinges, lifting slightly to bypass the squeaking. And she lays there.
His wife was never one to appear terribly on-guard, in most circumstances. In their home especially, she was always very relaxed, warm, welcoming. Sleep seems to have the effect of making everyone appear more at ease. Yor isn’t an exception to that rule. Hair let down to flow freely across her pillow, all signs of tensions she might carry in her face released with each inhale and exhale. The blanket is half-twisted around her form from whatever shifting she’s done since she went to bed.
And her hand is perched delicately on her pillow beside her face. Good. He would be out of her room before he came in. A quick, two second– no, one second –touch to put this stupid headache aside and he could finally squeeze some sleep out of these last few hours before sunrise made him start all over again.
He’s near, so very near. This terrible night is about to be history. He stretches his fingers just a bit further. Why is this so terribly drawn out? The gap from his hand to hers seems eternal.
And then, it doesn’t. The moment his fingertips brush her skin, her hand latches onto his wrist. No! The grip isn’t severe, but it’s very obvious she isn’t as thrown into sleep as he expected. Frantically, his eyes flick to hers. They don’t open quickly or defensively, but do flutter. Bleary and roused from rest by whatever reflex made her hand act.
“Loid?” It’s plain that she isn’t fully present yet, her blinks slow and murky. There’s a soft rasp to her voice, her throat not yet ready to be used for a new day.
“Uh…” He’s at a total loss, both thanks to this turn in the interaction and the fact that her hand lingering on his skin for so long is making it difficult to form sentences. The heat blooming at his wrist feels unhuman.
She’s still half-awake, her words limited to small segments punctuated with the barest of voice cracks. “What’s wrong… you feel bad?”
“I– yeah.” He’s the cognitive one; he needs to amend the situation he’s put them in. “But it’s fine. Sorry, I’ll just… go pet Anya on the head or something–”
“It’s okay.” Yor doesn’t release his wrist when he tries to remove it, instead drawing it closer to her. He stumbles a bit when his arm’s length runs out, realizing with both a thrill and a horror what she’s attempting. Before he can do anything about it, he falls shoulder-first onto her bed, gravity rolling him partially onto his back.
And his wife’s face is suddenly tucked into his neck, her forehead touching the exact spot he had been trying to massage the pain out of for the last several hours. Her right arm locks itself in place across his chest, pulling him in, her left resting softly on his bicep nearest to her. “Yor–”
“You’re okay,” is the last thing she mumbles before sleep fully claims her again, soft, deep breaths tickling the exposed skin where her awkward hold is stretching back his shirt collar. Loid, carefully, tries to wriggle free of his new prison, but finds her grip this time to be very firm, even in unconsciousness.
No. NO. Forget scotch. Forget wrist-grabs. This is a level he hasn’t prepared himself for at all. Far too many points of contact, from her face near his to her arm all the way down to her knees pressed against his leg. He wants to implode. The sensation is both ethereal and unholy. His stress-remover is now causing him more stress than ever. He–
Yor sighs once against him, pulling him ever closer. The shift causes a lock of hair to fall over her shoulder, now laying haphazardly at the edge of his chest. A soft, floral shampoo reaches his nose, combined with the fading scent of mint on her breath. Her heart thumps solidly along his arm.
Your family makes you comfortable. Why is that a bad thing?
His body relaxes, muscle and bone sinking into the mattress and the arms of his spouse. The unbearable heat shifts to a coalescent warmth, present but not overbearing. One arm is able to come free enough to tug the blanket at least up to his hips, making the touch from his legs to hers even more obvious. He finally allows her to melt away all the thoughts and plans he has, at least for tonight. Sleep reaches him in minutes, not hours.
He is distracted.
But he is okay.
––❀––
Loid wakes up in a bed occupied only by him.
The sheets are not his, nor the possessions on the vanity, nor the laundry waiting for its real owner to fold it on the chair. The first rays of dawn that wake him come through a window facing an unfamiliar direction. The scents around him are not the ones he wears.
He first raises himself onto an elbow, then gets his feet on the ground. The door to her room is half-open. He trudges out to the hallway; no one is preparing the kitchen, the television isn’t on. The newspaper still waits for its first reader in the mail slot.
But the room does have a mild chill to it. Not plainly obvious at first, he realizes the sounds of the street are louder than they ought to be. Walking past the couch and chairs, he pushes the curtain back to find their balcony door swung open. The morning dew is damp and refreshing as his bare feet touch the concrete.
––❀––
Yor’s head doesn’t feel right. She’s been outside for too long, and yet she still doesn’t feel she’ll ever get enough oxygen again. Her lungs cannot hold the amount of air she wants to draw in.
What had happened? She very clearly remembers going to bed earlier than expected– she knows that, because she had been concerned for Loid doing the same, he never did such things. And then she wakes up and he’s right there. Not just there, but right beside her, and she’s touching him. What would have possessed him; what would have possessed her? Leaving the room before he could wake up seemed like the only reasonable thing to do but now she would certainly have to confront–
“Yor?”
Her grip tightens on the balcony’s railing. She turns around mortifyingly slow to Loid standing in the doorway, hair still muddled, but with clear eyes. God, she hadn’t expected to be dealing with this so soon. Is it six already? Has she really stood out here for so long?
“I’m… so sorry, Loid,” she mutters meekly. She can’t even meet his gaze.
He steps out further, shortening the gap between herself and him. She turns back to face the street. Her hands flex closed and open on the rail while she tries to string together a response. “I have no idea what happened last night. I must have been out of it. I can’t remember what I was thinking but then I woke up and you were just there. I can’t… I’m sorry. You must…”
Her words falter when arms reach around her, drawing her against a solid chest. She inhales a sharp gasp as the bridge of his nose falls to her shoulder, locking her into him.
“That was the best night of sleep I’ve gotten in a long time,” is murmured into the hem of her gown’s neckline. He lifts his head, watching the park across the road. “Thank you, Yor. I mean it.”
She disengages from his hold, turning to face him now. “But… why?”
His brow furrows. “Why… was it the best night?”
“No, I mean, why are you thanking me?”
The corners of his lips quirk. “Well, you helped me a lot, I suppose.” He leans back onto the rail. “In a similar vein, may I ask why you’re apologizing?”
Yor tilts her head. “You don’t think you deserve one?”
“I guess… I could decide that better if I knew what you did wrong here.”
Oh, did he have to make her say it? She sinks to her ankles, her back falling into a carved stone column. “I grabbed you! I just… pulled you into bed without asking! I’m awful.”
He slides down beside her. “Yor, I walked into your bedroom. Late too, when you were half-asleep. I should be sorry, if either of us needs to be.”
“But it was so… improper,” she groans, running a hand through her bed-riddled hair.
“I didn’t mind,” Loid insists with a smile. This feels so wrong. Why does he keep acting like it’s all okay?
“I wasn’t even wearing a bra, Loid,” she mumbles, face hidden in her hands.
He chuckles. She glares at him. The smile remains. “Honestly, I hadn’t really noticed the fact,” he laughs.
She rests her chin on her knees again. A light touch to her arm draws her attention back to him.
“Look, whatever you think you did wrong, I don’t feel troubled over. And if I made you uncomfortable, I apologize, deeply. But I do mean it when I say I slept well.”
His hands fall into his lap, toying with the drawstring on his sweatpants. “You’ve probably noticed I’m not the most physically expressive man, thanks to… some previous events in my life. I think it’s led to a sort of wall I always try to keep between myself and others. But recently, I’ve been trying to extend my habits beyond that wall, starting within our familial circle, at least. And I think I’m enjoying the result more than I thought I would. I’m just… more at ease. Happier.”
“Well, obviously.” He perks up a little, glancing sideways. “With Anya,” she explains. “I mean, she’s impossible not to love in every way. Having her as a daughter is a blessing all its own.”
“I— Of course.” He turns his body a little more towards her. “But I’m also including you in that statement, you know.” Oh.
“Oh. I hadn’t realized.”
His next words seem to move like molasses from his lips, certain, but incredibly slow. “So if it’s possible— and you can tell me no, by all means. We never have to discuss this again. But if you’re okay with it, would you mind… if we continued with this kind of thing?”
“‘This kind of thing’,” she repeats.
“This— getting closer, sharing a bed. It doesn’t have to become something more than that. But if you’re willing… I could see it being a good thing.”
Yor looks down, toes tapping against the pavement. It’s a big step up from their current arrangement. But not one she’s entirely against either. “Well I can’t really say no when you put it like that, can I?”
“Don’t feel pressured just for my sake!” Loid rushes to add on. “I appreciate it, but only if it suits you. You’re just as much in this as I am.”
“It’s okay,” she reassures him quickly after, a squeeze to his hand to back up her claim. It’s even more comforting to feel his muscles relax under her touch, knowing what value it holds to him now. “I am happy with it, Loid. It’s a little different for me but I think it’s good, as well. The fact that I can help you out somehow makes me happy.”
His mouth opens, agape, before shutting and curling into a smile. “Thank you. I’m glad, too.” Briefly, he looks down to their hands still connected; the stone is cooling, grounding.
“If that’s settled then… do you mind if we go inside? I think our clothes are getting damp.”
“Oh! Yes, sorry.” She hops up from their seat, pulling him with her a little harder than intended. Their hold does not unlink until they must separate in the kitchen to begin breakfast.
––❀––
The bedroom at the far end of the hall sees little use these days, better suited to being a storage space than a place to rest. In the corner cabinet only sits some decorative serving dishes and the occasional bottle of wine for guests.
A nice spring breeze flows through the curtains as Yor tucks the corner of the fresh sheet under the mattress. Her husband’s favorite set, a powder blue cotton with just the right amount of breathability for the warmer air. Carrying the knowledge that he has such a selection makes her smile. It makes her feel trusted.
For a spy that cannot recognize when he needs to call for backup is hardly a spy at all.