Chapter Text
“The sun watches what I do, but the moon knows all my secrets.”
-J.M. Wonderland
-
If there ever were a spy who indulged themselves beyond the point of conspicuousness, it would have to be his handler. The infamous Sylvia Sherwood of Westalian Intelligence was, of course, a beautiful woman (not that she’d let you forget it). However, her extravagant fashion choices and a certain insistence on the reddest shade of lipstick she could find seemed to contradict everything she had ever taught Twilight about never drawing attention to oneself.
He had only tried to bring it up to her once. Still relatively traumatized from their early days of training, he fully expected to be thrown off the roof in retaliation, but she had only laughed at him instead. “Oh Twilight, you simply do not know what it’s like to be a woman these days.”
“I’ve been in relationships with plenty of women, thanks to your incessant need to throw me to the dogs like a chew toy.” he had retorted, but she waved him off.
“Nevertheless, you are still a man. No one would ever suspect you for simply playing the field, even at your age. A woman who is both single and successful in our times is suspicious, at best. We live in a world run by what’s expected to be normal, Agent Twilight. And the ways I choose to blend in will always be different than yours.” She then took out a compact mirror from her purse and applied yet another fresh coat of lipstick. “Besides, I like it. Makes an impression, you know?”
It hadn’t made much sense to him at the time (it still didn’t). But not wanting to be on the receiving end of the seemingly-increasing list of women who could kick his ass, he decided to drop the subject.
But today, in the bright, watery sunlight of a crisp morning in March, she wears no lipstick. A half-put together assemblage of her usual appearance flops into the chair right across from him, nearly knocking his coffee right off the table. She looks to be on the verge of murder.
Twilight clears his throat rather nervously. “Good day, Handler. Or rather, good ev—”
“Oh, cut the shit, Twilight.” Her auburn hair is piled carelessly on top of her head, loose curls falling in front of her lopsided glasses. She blows at them testily. “And don’t yell so loud, will you?”
The secluded café they had agreed upon sits just down the street from the general hospital, where Dr. Loid Forger supposedly made an honest living. As most of the customers were undercover WISE agents from the hospital anyway, it made meeting there slightly less difficult. Twilight liked the privacy the surrounding ivy plants provided, and it was a natural enough situation that it wasn’t considered to be suspicious if used sparingly.
Sylvia rubs irritably at a mascara-smudged eyelid before drinking deeply from her teacup. She drains it straight to the bottom, only to then look at the cup like it had personally offended her.
“Here, give me yours—” She’s halfway through his own mug of coffee before he can stop her, but she’s soon spluttering into a napkin. “What the hell is this crap? You only ever drink your coffee black!”
Twilight grimaces. “I had my wife switch me to decaf—you know, health reasons—” but Sylvia cuts him off.
“I don’t give a damn, Twilight. Get me something that will actually wake me up.”
And that’s how the top agent in Westalis had started his day—ignoring a freshly-baked croissant on his plate that was turning colder by the minute, trying his best to appease the demands of his handler who was in every sense of the word, not a morning person.
Sylvia rubs at her temples irritably before fishing out a pair of sunglasses from her purse. She’s still not entirely herself after a second cup of the darkest roast available, but at least she’s managed to stop sniping at people like an angry woodpecker. “I apologize, Agent Twilight. I find this country’s policy of turning the clocks forward an hour every spring especially deplorable.”
Twilight nurses his newest cup of coffee a bit protectively. “You know, you could have just said you have a bad hangover.”
“I am not hungover.”
“Of course not. Just like I don’t have nightmares about the war anymore.”
Sylvia sighs and leans back in her chair. “Fine. It was a rough night, alright? It’s just that…yesterday would have been her birthday.”
Twilight glances at her, waiting, but she's seemed to have locked her words away, gaze firmly trained on the wooden grain of the table. Quietly, he leans back in his chair and mutely finishes his breakfast. His handler has mentioned her daughter maybe twice in the time he’s known her, and he’s certainly not one to pry on the matter. Some things were best left in the past.
Sylvia eventually sighs and shakes her head. “Enough of this.” she says brusquely. “We have a new assignment for you, Agent Twilight, and I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”
“When is it not?” he mutters into his drink.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Handler.”
“Hmm,” she purses her lips with a slight frown. “To get straight to the point, this mission is somewhat of a special case, seeing as we are coming at it from a civilian front. In other words, we aren’t in need of Agent Twilight’s services, but Loid Forger’s.”
Twilight raises an eyebrow at her from across the table. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
There’s a rustling of papers as Sylvia digs through her purse (how she could ever find a thing in that bottomless pit, he would never know), but she effortlessly pulls out a printed newspaper and spreads it out evenly across the table. His eyes skim over the contents of the open pages, but he finds nothing unusual about it. A few advertisements for school bags, gossip columns near the bottom—but otherwise the newspaper seems completely ordinary. No code or cipher hidden whatsoever. But Sylvia taps a painted index finger near the corner of the page, under which lies a photograph of a rather disgruntled-looking man, scowling up at them as if he felt both viewers were entirely beneath his sphere of concern.
“We’ve been monitoring recent activity regarding the National Unity Party.” Sylvia says, lowering her voice so Twilight has to lean forward to hear her properly. “According to our intel, some prominent members are going to be attending the city-wide annual auction this weekend. I’m afraid Donovan Desmond will not be making an appearance there, but some of his most closest political allies most certainly will be— including Gregory Gentile, a member of the party’s executive committee.”
Twilight glances down again at the photo, recognizing the familiar hard-set frown glaring up at them. “Yes, his daughter is an imperial scholar at Eden College, same year as Desmond’s oldest son. It would make sense why their fathers would be tied together politically. But how do you propose getting into an event like that? There’s no way security would allow even the upper class to mingle with the country’s top elite.”
Sylvia laces her fingers together, her lips twisting into a knowing smirk. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Dr. Loid Forger has recently published some groundbreaking work on the improvements of modern psychiatry, which seems to have caught the attention of Mr. Gentile quite thoroughly. He’s taken particular care to ensure you’ve been given an invitation. In fact, I suspect Fiona’s already taken the liberty to place it on your desk.”
“I don’t doubt it,” says Twilight, but his thoughts are already running at a million miles an hour. Operation Strix has always been centered around his (fake) six-year-old daughter, depending entirely upon Anya’s academic prowess or the snaillike improvements regarding her friendship with Damian Desmond. Could there possibly be a third option?
(It would have been incorrect to say he wasn’t proud of the child. She was exceptionally eager to succeed, even if her actual progress was incremental at best.) But there was still a sense of guilt that ground into his gut every time he came home to his wife and child. The longer he stayed, the more Loid Forger became entangled in their lives. This was always meant to be a long-term mission, but it would make a very messy exit if things went amiss. If there was a way to accomplish the mission without getting them involved even further…
“Oh, and you’ll need to bring your wife along as your date.” Sylvia says quite offhandedly. “Dr. Forger is, after all, a faithful husband. It would arouse far too much suspicion if you were to arrive unaccompanied.”
Twilight almost chokes on his coffee. “You want me to bring Yor?”
Sylvia gives him an odd look. “Yes, naturally it would make sense for a wife to accompany her husband to such a distinguished event. The implications of the alternative would prove distasteful, at best. But you go on dates with your wife every weekend, Twilight. This shouldn’t be any different. Unless there’s somehow trouble in paradise?”
“What? No! Yor and I aren’t—we haven’t—stop looking at me like that!” Sylvia only shrugs with a quiet chuckle under her breath, but Twilight thoroughly ignores her. “I just don’t understand why we have to involve civilians in this any more than we have to.” he grumbles. “This could be done without them.”
The mission would indeed prove to be far riskier if he had to play a dangerous game of politics with his wife in the middle of it as well. Yor could take care of herself, of course—that wasn’t an issue in the slightest. But there were far nastier things a powerful politician could do if he felt threatened or betrayed. Twilight had no idea what Gregory Gentile could possibly want from him, especially considering he had never even talked to the man before. It felt too much like a luxurious fly trap, luring in prey with false pretenses. But Loid Forger could always disappear if relations decided to go south. Yor could not. Anya could not.
Sylvia is studying him quite intently through the rims of her round glasses. “Your concern is valid, Agent Twilight. However, the entire point of Operation Strix was to enable an ordinary citizen of Ostania to get close to Desmond, the entire source of our problem. It’s time for Loid Forger to start making those connections, and that includes his wife. For both Ostania and Westalis, world peace depends upon it.”
The morning somehow seems much less cheery than it did five minutes go. Sunlight filters through the curtain of ivy leaves secluding the two of them from the rest of the world, creating oddly-shaped shadows on the edge of their shared table. Twilight traces the rim of his empty cup with his thumb. He’s always accepted that Operation Strix would put Loid Forger’s family in potential danger, but it was getting harder and harder to rationalize why their safety was much less important than the safety of the entire world.
He shakes his head. Those thoughts wouldn’t do for the sake of the mission. His chair scrapes against the worn cobblestones beneath, and Twilight tosses a couple dalc next to his empty drink as he stands. “Well then, I suppose I should get started. I assume the State Security Service will be making an appearance at this event? They seem to have developed a habit of following me everywhere I go.”
Sylvia nods. “No better place to monitor the country’s elite. Do be careful, will you? It’s far too much paperwork for me to fill out if something were to happen.”
“I’m always careful, Handler.”
She narrows her eyes at him, but says nothing more on the subject. “The invitation will give you the details of everything you need to know concerning the night of the operation. I trust you know the extent of what’s expected?”
“Bring my wife to an elite private auction, get close to Gentile, and don’t let the Secret Police know I’m a spy.” He puts his hat back on and tips it in farewell. “Try not to die.”
“And have fun, Twilight.” Sylvia grumbles. “Honestly, would it kill you to at least try?”
-
Twilight has already run the list over in his head at least twenty times: confirm reservations at the Bieberbau, double-check that his firearms are loaded properly, make sure Franky knows Anya could only watch one show tonight…
He suddenly pauses in front of the bathroom mirror, his fingers hovering just above his bowtie. Franky was aware Anya couldn’t have ice cream right before bedtime, right? And that she had to brush her teeth for at least two minutes? Bond also needed to be fed as well before it got too late. Had Anya finished her homework for Monday yet?
Twilight shakes his head. Maybe it had been a little too long since he and Yor had gone on a proper date. Inbetween his overload of extra missions and her boss recently requiring extra shifts at City Hall, it was getting harder and harder to find a time that worked for the both of them. Perhaps tonight they could linger in the hallway a bit longer before going out—always a good excuse to assure the neighbors that yes, the Forgers were still a happy, normal, loving family.
The growing uneasiness that had settled into his stomach since yesterday morning churns sharply once again, and he grips onto the edge of the porcelain sink until his knuckles turn white. He closes his eyes and lets out a long, controlled breath in an attempt to calm himself down. Jumping to the worst possible conclusion before the date had even started wasn’t how a loving husband was supposed to act around his wife, especially to such a prestigious and reputable event.
He hadn’t been able to gather much intel on Gregory Gentile on account of there being almost nothing to be found. The policies of the National Unity Party were speculative, at best—most of the speeches included a long list of promises for the future or the occasional anti-Westalian rant, but that seemed to be the basis of just about every political platform in Ostania. Gentile was proving to be almost as elusive as Desmond himself.
A spy had to plan for every outcome, every possible turn of event. But going into it with almost no information at all was driving him insane. Twilight had no idea how to prepare for such a conversation with a potentially dangerous politician, especially if he was supposed to play the part the loving, doting husband alongside some of Ostania’s most prominent members, some of which probably oversaw the ongoings of Eden College as well. If he didn’t play his cards just right, this night could prove to be disastrous in every outcome imaginable.
Twilight puts a hand to his forehead and tries to ignore the throbbing headache starting at his temples. It doesn’t help that his daughter is currently twirling around the apartment, singing some wordless tune she must have picked up from one of her television shows. Anya, of course, was beyond excited to learn Mama and Papa were dressing up to go on a fancy date, so she had decided to get ready with them. Yor was only too happy to indulge her, helping Anya into her favorite pink “ooting dress,” and would probably still be fixing her daughter’s hair in ribbons if her husband hadn’t reminded her that she had to get ready herself.
Anya spins around in her dress again, narrowly missing the open doorway of the bathroom before bumping into the back of her father’s legs. She giggles and looks up at him with absolute glee. “Papa, look! I’m a princess!”
Twilight tears himself away from his thoughts and looks down at his daughter. The crown she had gotten from their nighttime castle excursion rests crooked on top of her head. His hand automatically stretches out to adjust it. “I can see that. You and Franky going to play Spy Wars again tonight?”
“Maybe,” Then her bottom lips trembles, the way it always did when she really wanted something. “But I really want to come with you and Mama tonight. Please?”
Twilight ruffles her hair. “Not tonight, Anya. Besides, you wouldn’t like it very much. It’s just a lot of grown-ups talking.”
“But Anya has to keep you safe!”
He shakes his head and smiles. That child could be incredibly perceptive at times, even if she had no idea of the situation surrounding his constant state of inner turmoil. “You have the best imagination, Anya. Mama and I will be fine, I promise. Maybe we’ll even bring back some peanuts if you behave tonight.”
Anya still doesn’t look very happy about it, but suddenly the door to Yor’s bedroom opens a crack, and he hears his wife’s voice calling out to him. “Loid? Could you…could you come here and help me for a second?”
Twilight gives Anya one last pat on the head before walking over to Yor’s bedroom, knocking softly on the open door as he walks through. “What is it, Yor?”
She sits with her back to him as he enters, one hand pulling her long black hair over her shoulder. Her face is blazing crimson. “The zipper’s stuck.”
“Oh. No problem.” Twilight silently makes his way over to her, trying not to let his gaze linger too long on the way her dress exposes almost the entirety of her back. She had picked it up from the tailor’s only that morning, so he had yet to see what sort of gown she had chosen for the evening. He’s not surprised at the color (red, of course), but it’s relatively simple in its design. Flowy sleeves fall loosely off her shoulders, the back of the dress dipping down her spine until being tied off with a satin bow.
His fingers fumble uncharacteristically as he concentrates on the tiny zipper just a few centimeters above the bow, resting stubbornly just beyond his wife’s reach. Twilight holds his breath before untangling the zipper and gliding it upward, securing it snugly against her waist. His knuckles accidentally brush against her exposed skin, warm to the touch. Yor lets out a tiny gasp.
Twilight snatches his hands away immediately. “Terribly sorry, Yor.”
“No, it’s fine.” she squeaks. “Don’t worry about it.”
Yor looks up at the mirror resting on top of the dresser she’s sitting in front of, meeting his gaze in their reflection. Twilight looks away quickly, the heat under his collar starting to become quite uncomfortable. The neckline of her dress dips down far lower than that of her usual preferred red sweater.
He clears his throat. “You look nice, Yor.”
He glances back to see a faint pink rising prettily onto her cheeks. “T-thank you!” she says. “I, uh, liked the color a lot.”
“It suits you.”
Yor’s face grows even redder before she becomes keenly interested in the patterned rug below her seat. She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You look nice too, Loid.”
Twilight pauses. He’s been told this multiple times before (usually as an attempt to get him out of his clothes at the end of the night), but the compliment hits differently coming from Yor. She’s now burying her face in her hands even as he mutters out his thanks, her fingers trying to hide the now full-blown blush that goes all the way down her throat. He finds it oddly endearing.
“Speaking of which, I almost forget to give you this,” he says, trying to ignore the jittery restlessness rising in his stomach. “It’s something for you to wear tonight. Wait here for a second.”
He crosses over quickly into his own bedroom across the hallway, retrieving the slim red velvet box resting on top of his nightstand. Yor’s gaze is curious when he returns and hands it to her, but her eyes widen as soon as she opens the case.
“Oh, Loid…”
“Here,” He collects the string of pearls nestled within the silk lining, draping them carefully over her neck before doing up the clasp at the back. “Just a small thank you for all you do for Anya and I.”
Yor stares at her reflection in the mirror again, her mouth hanging slightly open. Her fingers stroke at a few of the pearls, handling them as if they were made out of glass. She stands and turns to face him fully. “I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Loid.”
A surge of guilt suddenly rises up in his chest. There’s something about the way Yor is now looking at him, full of trust and adoration, her smile watery as she continues to fondle the necklace. Twilight can’t help but think that this sort of thing is something a husband would gift his wife for special occasions, like on an anniversary or as a birthday present. But his reasonings behind the gift are entirely selfish. Nothing but an ends to a mean for the sake of the mission.
His handler had sent a coded message just a few days ago, written right into that morning’s newspaper. “You need to make sure Gentile knows you can afford to attend that party, that you’re even worth talking to. There’s no better place for a man to display his wealth than around the neck of his wife.”
Diamonds were the obvious answer, of course. There were very few sites where they could be mined in Ostania, so they often needed to be shipped in from neighboring countries. The wives of some of the nation’s highest-ranking political members wore such shimmering displays during important public appearances, showing off heavily encrusted diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Donavan Desmond’s wife herself favored a particularly expensive jade necklace that had supposedly once belonged to a long-forgotten queen.
But even with every piece of glittering treasure shoved underneath his nose at the jewelry store, Twilight couldn’t seem to buy anything offered to him for Yor. She would look beautiful in any one of them (he thought the golden studded rubies in particular were sure to make his wife stand out), but something stopped him from making the purchase every time.
Twilight had never had an issue with pretenses on any of his other missions. His pseudo-relationships were a mere semblance of connections, a string of broken promises and tangled bedsheets before he disappeared from their lives forever. Luisa, Monika, Roy, Karen—what their relationship had extended to beyond the mission had never really mattered long as Agent Twilight got the information he needed. If Loid Forger needed to show off his wife like a piece of property in order to get close to the upper crust of Ostania, then so be it. The sake of world peace depended on it.
So why did it still feel so wrong?
“Pearls?” the salesman had speculated when Twilight had pointed out a simple double-stranded string tucked into the corner of the shop. “Are you sure? They’re common for every-day wear, but they don’t really make an impression. I’d recommend something flashier for going to an elite event.”
But Yor liked them. That he was sure of. She had borrowed a pearl choker from one of her co-workers for the interview at Eden College, thinking it would help boost her image as a well-to-do housewife. Twilight had caught her gazing fondly at them the evening after, letting the necklace slide through her fingertips before tucking it away into her work bag.
If he had to dangle his fake wife around like some sort of accessory for a decorated façade of pretentiousness, he could at least give her something she would actually like, right?
But all his thoughts slide from his mind completely when Yor suddenly shifts closer and beams up at him, pure and unadulterated. She’s a breathtaking sight to behold. His wife has always been pretty—subtle curves and a charming figure, long black hair framing eyes in the most peculiar shade of crimson—but tonight she's almost glowing, brimming with a sense of confidence he finds particularly attractive on her.
Twilight swallows thickly. “Uh—you’re welcome, Yor. I’m glad you like them.”
She’s very close now—close enough to smell her rose-scented perfume, close enough to notice the sudden flush coating the base of her throat. “Loid, I—”
“Mama! Papa! Uncle Scruffy is here!”
The door to their bedroom bangs wide open, and Anya barges in with her stuffed chimera in a tow, Bond trotting at her heels. “He wants to talk to Papa…what are you doing?”
Yor jumps a good three feet back away from him, her hand clutching at her chest. “Anya! You frightened us! S-scruffy’s at the door, you said?”
Twilight sighs and tries to control his pounding heart. Focus, Twilight…
“I’ll be out in a second, Anya.” he says with an attempt at a casual smile. “Although please don’t answer the door all alone, okay? You never know who’s on the other side”
Anya grumbles under her breath—something about spoiling “the mission”—but she follows him out into the living room anyway, where Franky sits impatiently on the couch with his feet kicked up against the upholstery.
“You better have been grabbing your checkbook back there,” he jeers, a nasty smile stretching across his face. “I’ve decided I’m being overworked as it is. The reviews are in, and Uncle Scruffy is demanding a pay raise for his services.”
Twilight rolls his eyes. “You’re not the only babysitter in town, you know. And get your feet off the couch. At least try to act civilized.”
Franky ignores him and holds out an open palm. “I’m the only one willing to put up with your daughter. Pay up, Loidman.”
Twilight has half a mind to say that if WISE didn’t overwork him so much, he wouldn’t require Franky’s entitled services every other weekend. But since Anya is still in the room, he resigns himself to forking over the desired amount of bills into Franky’s awaiting hand. “Don’t waste it on gambling again.”
“It was to impress a girl!” Franky retorts, but Twilight’s only half-listening. He retrieves his black suitcoat from off the back of a kitchen chair and slides it on, adjusting his cufflinks somewhat hastily.
“Yor, are you ready?” he calls over his shoulder, but she’s already at the front door, having slipped past him again without a sound.
She smiles up at him from the door, Anya still clutching to her legs in an attempt to go with her. “I’m ready, Loid! Oh wait, your bowtie’s crooked—” She’s suddenly right in front of him, fiddling with his bowtie until she finds it satisfactory. “Perfect!”
Twilight rubs the back of his neck a bit awkwardly. He’s ninety-two percent sure his ears are red again, based on Franky’s slight cough from behind him. “Uh, thank you, Yor.”
Sure enough, Franky gives him the most unimpressed look when Yor turns to say goodbye to Anya, the lecture written all over his face. Twilight ignores him.
“Have a goodnight, Anya!” Yor says as her husband opens the door for her. “We’ll be back soon!”
Twilight looks pointedly at his daughter, but waves in farewell just the same. “Be a good girl.”
“The hot cocoa’s on the stove!” Yor calls over her shoulder.
Twilight puts a hand on her back to lead her out. “Remember to brush your teeth.”
“—don’t go to bed too late!”
“Make sure you do your homework—”
“We’ll be fine!” Franky finally exclaims, pushing them both out of the door and into the hall. “Just get going already! Seriously, it’s like you guys don’t trust us at all!”