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haven't felt like this, my dear
since can't remember when
you'll never know
how many dreams I dream about you
it's been a long, long time
When they finally reveal themselves against each other, it’s like they marry for a second time. There are no forced smiles, no holding back from touching each other, and next to Loid and Yor, it’s Twilight and the Thorn Princess who become husband and wife too and he thinks that it’s—
so unnatural and wonderful, so terrifying and domestic, so real.
He expects the difference of their secrets to collapse against them, against Anya, against their shield to protect themselves from suspects. But he should have known from the start that Yor never lied or made fake gestures, not to him. That all her smiles and softness were real even before she knew who he really was—her blushes, her whispers, the sparkled stares where she was first falling for the side of Loid Forger.
But she’s like that with him now, too, learning about this real side of him, kissing every new spot of his soul that she finds (as if she always knew, as if she was waiting all this time for him to reveal himself).
And he understands that he was never lying, too. That everytime he smiled at her, everytime he blushed together with her, all the times he felt ashamed and like a fool for thinking of how pretty she always was—it was all real.
Loid and Yor were married, while Twilight and Thorn Princess were secretly falling for each other.
(and it’s been such a long, long time
waiting to finally show themselves against each other,
to let their hearts stop wandering, to finally be at home).
On their first real date night, he doesn’t take her to a fancy restaurant or a walk under the warm moonlight. It’s their first time on a mission together, and they’re sitting on a roof under the starlight sky after they finally finish their job.
Twilight feels strange. He has done countless missions with other people before, agents and partners, some lost and some who came back home without any other word—yet this feels different. He stares at his wife cleaning the last traces of blood on her hands, the black dress he always loved on her now teared up apart in some parts of her body, exposing the wounds that give him a new anxiety. Yor finally reacts at his gaze (she always could feel it, even before she loved him), and wipes a trace of dirt and blood on one of his cheeks, kissing it softly after she's done.
And his heart beats faster, warming him up on his veins, as she stares at him silently with a tired and blushed smile on her lips.
It's okay. I'm alive, you're alive. Let's go home.
And as her husband smiles back, they choose to stay there just for a little bit more. She rests her head against his shoulder, his big warm and calloused palm hugging her around her waist, as they stare silently at the city lights with the rumor of the night over them.
Yor thinks that there can't exist anything more romantic than this.
Whether he's still acting as Loid Forger or Twilight, he's still victim of a deep stress. The bags are obvious under the tired blue of his eyes, his bones feeling like dust on the back of his skin. He has always been used to this, lived like this, but Yor is now aware of what is the true reason behind his job really is (because she lives it, too). And it's from this point that he learns how doting and spoiling his wife can really be.
She always took care of her brother, then of Anya, and she can't help but be like this when it comes to her husband, too. Her husband who has a double life and works even twice than her, who slept less than three hours a night before he stopped hiding things from her.
So Yor forces him to take naps now: sometimes making him rest his head on her lap while Anya giggles on his side, humming an old ballad that lulls him on a deep sleep; other times she doesn't let him get up from bed unless he has an urgent mission, and guides his face on the space between her chest and her shoulder, until it is him who snuggles against the smell of dew and roses of her skin, letting himself to be under whatever Yor's spell is.
Twilight, the greatest spy, does let himself be vulnerable (but only when it comes to his wife).
The drizzle hits softly against the glass of the window, and the radio hums an old ballad while Anya is in a deep sleep on his lap, tired after waiting so many hours for her mama. Loid—or rather, Twilight, is still up, trying to find some distraction while reading for a newspaper that he already finished hours ago. The clock ticks together with the rain drops, and he feels annoyed at this new knowledge, at this new anxiety.
He knows how strong his wife is. He always did, even before he knew about her real job, he and Anya knew they could always rely on her unnatural strength. Yet every time she leaves for one of her missions, to her 'customers', he feels the fear crawling on his veins like a spider every time she's taking longer than she should. And he should know better, he should be confident in her, but he knows that Yor feels like that everytime he goes alone too.
He tries to find comfort in the sight of their daughter, comfortable and safe of everything, happy, sleeping soundly while her hand is softly clinging to the cuff of his shirt.
The sound of the door opening finally breaks the fear, and she's there. Yor is like a refined darkness, with the long dress hugging her skin like a shadow, the sight of her making her look so regal and dangerous—so beautiful and deadly, like a killer queen. Loid would usually love her on that dress, but he's still making an expression he knows he would hate if he saw it, because Yor gives him a moved and watery smile, the kind of face she does when she's apologizing, when she's silently saying I'm home.
When he slowly gets up from the couch, carrying the still sleeping Anya on his arms, he leans down a little bit to meet his lips with his wife's, and he feels warm again, when she's kissing softly the crown of their daughter's head.
He's glad she's home one more time.
They were already used to dealing with their wounds on their own.
Yor had to heal herself away from everything and everyone, afraid of being discovered, painting and covering the wounds of her skin even back when she was still an inexpert assassin, learning to hide the pain on her face. Loid hated any of his partners seeing his wounds, or getting one helping to fix him up—it felt like crossing a barrier, one that he always had, even as a child and as a soldier, only he knew about the amount of scars and open wounds on his broken and tired body, and only he would heal himself on them (not that he got that hurt later when he became the greatest spy).
Yet now, they caress each other's wounds and scars in a silent and deep intimacy. The first time they expose each other's marks, Yor fills the bathtub for them after a long mission (after putting Anya to sleep, kissing her goodnight), and her husband does nothing but follow her there. Even with her blushes and intense shyness, she doesn't hesitate anymore when he opens his arms to her in a silent welcome, smile soft on his lips and damp hair. That's when Yor shifts in the bath, the water flowing around them as she moves to him, pressing her back to his chest and sinking down to rest her head on his chest.
Loid always feels weird talking about his missions to her in such a casual talk, making it now part of their everyday life, and not only his anymore. But Yor would always share, too, and she has a softer expression on her when she talks about how tiresome was to deal with this particular group of terrorists, and there's a small smile on her lips like she's happy that she can finally talk about this to someone else, to someone that understands how it all feels.
Her husband hums back at her words, listening to her voice softly echoing through the walls as he's too relaxed to even move, until he slowly feels her hands touching his within the bubbles, running her fingers down over his wounded knuckles and wrists. He sighs contentedly then, sitting in silence and closing his eyes in bliss, just enjoying the press of her skin to his. Yor giggles at the sound of his sounds, and she can feel his stomach expand and contract, his breathing even compared to the slight race of his heart. Loid then can feel his wife focusing now on a particular big wound on the back of his left arm, running her nails up and down on it, but he does nothing to stop her. Yet even so, Yor can feel him tense up anytime she's touching any part of his hurt skin, and stops anything that can make him uncomfortable, until Loid silently lets her know that she can keep going.
The water and the soft kisses heal their sore bodies, the tired bones and the tickling of their not painful but annoying wounds of their fights. When they get out of the bath, he lets her treat him, and Yor bandages his wounds before she's softly kissing a particular red or open scar, taking care and time with each one of them. He does the same with her as well, even with her being redder and more hesitant, insisting that he doesn't have to—but he wants to, he replies, he wants and needs to take care of her too.
This becomes a routine, then. And Loid Forger would wonder if this is normal for common marriages, if this is a routine that would make them look normal. But Twilight doesn't care, that thought and worry of apparences for them stopped mattering to him a long time ago now. So they always head to bed after they heal each other, with him hugging her closely against his chest, hiding his face between her hair and the back of her neck. The scars on his arms and back always feel warm after it, and he knows that Yor's do as well, when she entangles her fingers with his as they fall asleep—sinking deeper into his hold.
Slowly he lets her know old stories that have already been buried in his own memory. With her, he slowly starts to remember (wanting to remember). Yor tells him stories of her childhood: the feeling of her mother's hair tickling her nose and making her giggle, the blurred image of her father, the few dishes she learned to make with Yuri. She tells him everything, and the story of how she became an assassin, the painful and the exciting stories of her missions, even the cruise one (which leaves him with his mouth open, unable to believe that he was there, too). Yor tells him so many things, that he also finds himself slowly sharing.
When he tells her about his mother, his father and his old friends (the blurried pictures of them, still children and happy, buried on a part of his heart), he notices that sometimes his voice sounds raspy, watery even, and he can't believe himself. When he looks up, his wife is staring at him with the same sadness and fondness he's feeling when he talks about them, and Twilight feels so exposed. He never let himself to think about certain things again, to wonder how himself feels, and here he is seeing how easy it really was, how it isn't so scary: not if Yor is there listening, saving him.
And so he suddenly hugs her, ignoring the little gasp of surprise from her, and with the hug comes the warmth and natural smell of roses of her hair. She slowly puts her arms around him, nuzzling her cheek on his soft hair, a big blushed smile on her lips. Separating for a bit, he smiles when she barely brushes her lips against his cheeks, and he's carefully staring at her eyes, her cheeks and then her mouth— which belongs to him now, until they're suddenly kissing each other: tasting the trace of salt on the corners of their mouths, slow at first until the kiss becomes deep and almost desperately, trying to take the touch to the infinity.
He feels the same way he always does whenever he's touching her: that he's finding a part of himself that he didn't know was missing.
Yor is a warm summer night.
Twilight always knew this, even the moment where he met her, back when they kept lying at each other’s faces. He has always loved the nights—silent and wam, welcoming, where everything was quiet and he could be himself and no one else, finding comfort in the maternal light of the full moon. And Yor is that and more, even when he first touched her, when she first kissed him, tasting the moonlight against her lips and the trace of stardust on the little open wounds on her skin.
He always found comfort in the night, and so does in her, whenever they touch each other—skin to skin. The first time for them it was messy, and awkward, Loid having to block his wife's kicks anytime she felt too much, whenever she felt too intense; she apologized over and over again, quickly reaching for him, taking his face between her hands and kissing him strong and intensely, until she had him melting again against her, giggling under her lips as he tried to let her know they could take it slow.
The next times, though, it's always Yor who's searching for him; and Loid (Twilight) lets himself get lost in the dark of the night in her arms. He had been with countless women before, all of those times with other purposes and lies, and all of them have been quick, passionless touches. They all felt empty, or cold in his arms, ladies of high society or daughters of important ranks that didn't need much seduction as they were soon looking for him. That's how Twilight lived that type of the pleasure life, short and passionless quick nights, where there was nothing but an empty feeling after everything was over—where he didn't let himself feel anything, and where those women didn't look for much anyways.
But with Yor, it always feels like the first time for him. Like all experience is gone, like there's something else that was supposed to be there, and Yor gives it to him as he replies to her touches and feelings. Most times it's her who is over him, taking the lead, touching him with a passion only she possesses, the deep way she always feels everything: fervent and fierce, her hands caressing every spot, slow and fast. She kisses him deeply, to the point of fainting, and Loid can taste moonlight on her tongue as she imprents the taste of smoke and ginger of him into her mouth—a mark of him inside of her forever.
And his wife is a warm summer night, fierce and silent, just like Thorn Princess is. Their skins and heavy breaths are two rivers meddling with each other, two lands crossing the borders, fingers finding each other like waves on a stormy sea. She's the night, calling for him, and Twilight answers her over and over again, following her voice in the depths of the darkness.
On a winter night, Anya woke up at the sound of whispering from the living room, and from the echoes of the voices from minds that her own one could also catch up.
That alone was very noisy for her, so she peeked carefully on the door of her room, only to find her papa and mama sitting on the couch, very close together. She had to rub her eyes a couple of times, until she was awake enough to break a smile on her face, wanting to go with them. It was the sight, though, that stopped her right in the spot. Her papa was smiling, a big smile that he rarely had, and her mama's face was all red like an apple. His hand went looking for hers, and she slowly leaned against his face, until Anya couldn't get to see what they were doing anymore, as they stayed in that position for a long time. When they separated for a bit, papa said something in mama's ear that made her giggle, and she went against his face again.
Anya went quickly back to her room then. She thought she would get scolded if they found her out.
Snuggling again on her bed, with Bond cuddling against her, Anya remembered all the stuff about smooching and marria-gees that Becky and every adult had told her about. She thought that was enough explication of what was going on in the living room, yet Anya couldn't help but remember what she read in their minds: her papa's was echoing with the name 'Thorn Princess' and her mama's with 'Twilight'. It was at that moment that she panicked, the fear she always felt whenever their family could break apart, but then she remembered that papa was smooching mama whenever he repeated her codename in his mind, and mama did the same with his.
Anya blinked, confused for a moment, snuggling closer to Bond and Chimera, feeling then a wave of relief and warmth, so much warmth. And a part of her wondered why, before she finally fell asleep again.
Because it was finally time, she thought. Because things couldn’t be otherwise.
Because that is how things belonged to be for Loid and Yor, for Twlight and Thorn Princess, for papa and mama.
And Anya always knew this, from the first very moment they met at that store. She always knew, even before they did.