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It’s nothing, Twilight has to tell himself when he watches Anya walk past him. Her hands have a tight grip around the straps of her backpack; a look of determination wears on her face. As she breezes through the apartment, she doesn’t say a word—just lets confident footsteps carry her down the hall. Twilight tries not to flinch at the sound of her bedroom door slamming shut behind her. It’s nothing, comes his silent reminder.
Still, less than ten seconds pass before he springs up from where he’d been sitting on the living room sofa and makes his way to her door, Bond at his heel. The pair hover there a moment—Twilight standing with his hand raised to the wood, trying to think of something to say; Bond beside him, offering an encouraging nudge with his snout. A nonverbal you can do it.
Twilight nods to himself before slowly rasping his knuckles against the door. He does so twice, then asks, “Anya, did something happen at Eden today?” He hopes he sounds the proper amount of worried, the way a real father would, not just the pretend kind who’s already catastrophizing about what a bad day would mean for Operation Strix. He’s still learning this part—playing the role of a father, that is.
He hears a bit of shuffling on the other side of the door before Anya opens it a crack to say, “Don’t you worry, Papa. Anya’s got it all under control.” Then she slams the door in his face, her devious grin the last thing Twilight sees before his vision becomes obstructed by a thick oak panel.
It’s nothing.
It’s nothing.
It’s—
“I’m home!”
Twilight startles at the sound of Yor’s voice, head turning just a little too fast in her direction. There’s a funny thump, thump, thumping of his heart against his chest when he sees her appear at the other end of the hall. Her long pink coat hasn’t been removed, and a bag of groceries is still cradled in her arms. A few snowflakes dust the top of her head. Her cheeks are flushed a deep red. The thought that she’s beautiful like this isn’t far-removed from Twilight’s mind. Though, to say she’s beautiful “like this” would imply that there are times when she’s not.
She’s always beautiful, Twilight knows.
He just hasn’t allowed himself the chance to give voice to these thoughts.
(Being in love with his pretend wife is not part of the mission—not in the way Twilight loves her, that is.)
He stands a little straighter, shoulders pulled back, and makes sure his movements are every bit as composed as a WISE agent’s should be when he starts toward her. “Welcome home, Yor,” he greets. There’s a warm smile on his face—practiced to perfection. “Do you need help with anything?”
Yor’s quiet for a moment, and in her silence, Twilight feels his anxiety grow. He watches her look down at her feet, the flush on her cheeks having yet to subside. She shifts and reshifts the weight of the bag cradled in her arms. The thought that she’s going to end things—that she’s sensed a change in his behavior and doesn’t feel the same—is one Twilight tries to push aside, knowing how irrational it sounds. He’s done nothing out of the ordinary; the front he hides behind hasn’t wavered, he’s certain of it.
Unless—
“Actually,” Yor starts to say, “I was hoping you and Miss Anya could help me with dinner tonight. I wanted to teach you how to make pierogi...” When she looks up at him, there’s a hesitant smile poking at the corners of her lips.
Twilight stills at the sight of it.
She's beautiful, are the words that echo.
He recovers quickly and without incident, but his voice still sounds higher than intended when he stumbles out, “Of course, Yor! How can I help? Anya’s in her room, but I’m sure—” It’s a thought he lets trail off. His lips clamp shut as he watches the smile on Yor’s face grow; she’s beaming at him now—radiant and bright. The pathetic thump, thump, thumping of his heart beats just a little faster. Years of training are nearly rendered obsolete the longer he stands there, gawking at his pretend wife inside their pretend apartment.
All because of her smile and the hope in her voice when she says: “Thank you, Loid!”
Everything after that passes in a blur. One minute Twilight’s walking back to Anya’s room to tell her that Yor needs her help with something, the next he’s standing at the dining room table, an apron tied around his torso and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Anya balances precariously on the chair to his right; Yor stands across from them both. She looks determined with her hair pulled back and an apron of her own already lightly dusted with flour.
“Okay,” she instructs them, one finger raised, “the first thing we have to do is make the dough.”
Her pupils nod in unison; Twilight with more vigor than necessary. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Anya smirk…whatever that means. He tells himself not to question it, though—already turning his attention back to Yor as she slides the jar of flour to his side of the table.
“Will you do the honors, Miss Anya?” she asks.
Anya is all too eager to oblige.
The mess that tears through their dining room, which then extends to their kitchen, becomes a welcome distraction for Twilight. Menial tasks like wiping flour off the floor before Bond can lick it up, or helping Anya knead dough, are ones that require little effort. He doesn't have to think; he just does. He peels potatoes with one breath, then chops and tosses them into a pot of boiling water with the next. He’s content to follow orders as Yor explains the pierogi making process.
He almost forgets the irregular thump of his heart until the dough’s been placed in the refrigerator to chill and the potatoes are left to boil. With a timer set, Anya retreats to her room, taking Bond with her. The sound of her door slamming shut, though, doesn’t rattle Twilight nearly as much as Yor’s voice when the two are left alone. They stand in the kitchen, no more than an arm’s length apart.
“Miss Anya did a great job with the dough,” Yor comments, a wistful sort of smile on her face. “And you were really great at helping her, too.”
“It’s all thanks to you, Yor. I was just following your lead. You were a great instructor.” The words are out before Twilight can take them back. Though, as he watches Yor toy with the hem of her apron, cheeks flushing a brilliant red, he decides he doesn’t want to take them back. Nothing he’s said is incriminating. It’s honesty— something that may seem silly given the circumstances of their relationship; but still. He can tell her a truth, even if he keeps the rest tucked away.
A little bit of honesty won’t jeopardize the mission, right?
Twilight tells himself it won’t.
He doesn’t let himself dwell on it. Instead, he turns his attention back to Yor when he hears her say, “I tried to teach Yuri when we were younger, the same way my mother taught me, but I don’t think he ever got it quite right.” Her shoulders give a small shake as she laughs to herself, likely recalling a memory from a life lived long ago. “It was always a tradition in my house to make them during the holidays, so I thought…I don’t know. I’m just— I’m glad I can pass this on to you and Miss Anya.”
Oh.
There’s something there, hiding in all the things she doesn’t say, that Twilight catches. An unspoken hope that he and Anya will have something to remember her by when their little charade ends. A piece of her that says I was here.
Twilight doesn’t have an estimate for how much time they have left, has no way of knowing when Operation Strix will be complete. The not knowing has always bothered him. He’s never been the type to rely on others. He’s never seen a point in it. The prospect of having to put his trust in two people wasn’t one he’d been willing to entertain during the early days of Strix. Relationships complicate everything; they leave strings attached. They’re reminders of what it means to be human—something Twilight had sworn off trying to be.
But things have changed in the months since he started playing pretend, and he’s gone and done the one thing he swore not to do: he’s become attached. He’s become human. Officially.
And now, he doesn’t want to let go.
The thoughts continue to echo the longer he stands there, content to exist in the mundaneness of the moment he finds himself in. There’s a part of him that wants to voice how he feels out loud. A part that wants to take Yor’s hand and bring her knuckles up to his lips, the gesture an unspoken promise that shows that whatever it is they’ve built won’t end when the dust from Operation Strix settles—one that lets her say I am here, not I was.
But he can’t; because all things must end, and this moment must go with it. So he steps away from the counter and is prepared to busy himself with some other menial task when he hears Anya emerge from her bedroom. Bond trails diligently behind. Twilight tells himself that the sight of them is a welcome reprieve. It allows him to tuck away all the things left unsaid—forgotten the moment Anya exclaims, “Papa, come quick! It’s an emergency!”
“What kind of emergency?” he asks with a sigh.
In response, Anya grabs his hand and drags him down the hall. “The kind that can’t wait!” is the only explanation she offers.
When they reach her room, she drops his hand and runs over to her desk. Twilight isn’t given so much as a chance to process what’s happening until he looks down and sees a crumpled up wad of green and red paper with a string crudely taped to it resting in his palm. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“Missed the toe,” Anya says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Becky said you have to hang it above the door or else.”
There’s something devious in her expression, something she’s not saying, but Twilight doesn’t have it in him to question her further. He grabs a piece of tape from the dispenser on Anya’s desk and attaches it to the end of the string that’s not already connected to the missed the toe—whatever that’s supposed to mean. Then he walks back to the open door and reaches up to tack it onto the frame.
“No! Not here!” Anya urges. She’s at his side now, tapping his thigh with one hand and using the other to point a finger down the hall—right at the door that belongs to Yor. “It has to be above Mama’s door or it won’t work.”
Twilight dismisses the idea immediately. “I’m not opening her door without her permission.” He tries to keep his voice stern when he says it, doing his best to maintain his composure. Yor’s room is not a place that he visits; it’s a level of intimacy that exceeds the parameters of their relationship—something they’re not meant to reach. “Why don’t we hang it above the bathroom door?”
Anya makes a face at him. “Is the bathroom romantic?”
Twilight stills. On the surface, no, the bathroom is not romantic. He’s spent enough time locked behind its doors to know the unpleasantries that reside there. And yet, when he opens up the door so that he can hang a crumpled wad of paper from its frame, he’s reminded of the time he and Yor had been in there alone. It’s been a few weeks since the incident occurred, but even now Twilight remembers the way her hands had massaged his scalp as she gently toweled it dry. He remembers the melody she’d hummed—the one he sometimes catches himself mumbling under his breath at the hospital, or on nights when sleep is particularly elusive.
Above all, he remembers how he’d contemplated leaning down to kiss her goodnight, and how a piece of him has regretted not doing so every night since.
Get it together, Twilight, comes his unfriendly warning as he tapes the string to the doorframe. It dangles low enough that it bumps his head when he steps back into the hallway. He’s not sure of the significance that it holds, but when he looks down at Anya and sees her satisfied grin, he decides that there are worse decorations than the missed the toe now hanging in the bathroom’s doorway.
She’s happy, and that’s good enough for him.
(Another reminder of his humanity.)
With the emergency having been sufficiently handled, Anya’s content to walk with him down the hall, back to the kitchen where the timer for the potatoes has just gone off. As he approaches, Twilight sees Yor hard at work chopping up an onion, her fingers handling the knife with practiced precision. He steps around her to turn off the burner the pot of potatoes currently sits on top of and asks, “What’s next?”
When she turns to him, there’s a warmth on her cheeks. Her eyes are wide with excitement. Were she not still holding the knife she’d been using to chop up the onion with, the sight of her beaming at him like this would be enough to send Twilight’s heart straight to his throat. Instead, he takes a precautionary step back just as she says, “First, the filling!”
The order’s received.
Twilight tightens the strings of his apron and walks back to the dining room. He sees that Anya has already reclaimed her spot on top of one of the chairs, balancing on it precariously as she leans forward to inspect something indiscernible on the table. There’s a determination wearing on her face that’s not unlike the look she had when she’d come home from school today. It’s the kind that shows she means business (one Twilight wishes she’d reserve for her Eden assignments a bit more—but he doesn’t say as much now). He takes his place beside her and awaits further instructions.
Once Yor joins them, the three fall back into an easy rhythm finishing up dinner preparations. They start with the filling. Anya takes great pleasure in helping mash the potatoes, yelling curses at them like they’re the villains in her spy cartoons. Her method is less-than-effective, but Twilight lets it be. The apartment is loud and it’s messy, yet he feels an unexplainable calm settle over him the longer the process goes on.
Here, there’s no pressure to get it right, no front they have to adopt in order to be the inconspicuous Forger Family. World peace doesn’t reside in the pockets of dough Yor teaches them how to fold. Twilight’s spent months justifying his every action by claiming that it’s for the mission, but in this moment—as he watches Yor hold the bowl steady while Anya adds cheese to the (semi) mashed potato mixture—he realizes that sometimes it’s okay to want. Sometimes, the walls can come down. Because right now, they feel like a real family; and Twilight doesn’t want to let that go.
(Especially not when he hears his pretend daughter say to his pretend wife, “Anya wants to make pierogi with Mama and Papa forever!”)
Once they finish stirring up the mixture, they set it aside and move on to rolling out the dough that’s been left to chill. With the calm that’s nestled itself in every corner and crevice of their apartment comes a warmth that tickles Twilight’s cheeks when he steps out of the way so that Yor can show Anya how to use the rolling pin. He leans his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and thinks: Oh.
So this is what it means to be happy.
Happiness for him is a fickle thing, something that’s never been known to last. He’s spent years taking on missions and risking his life to ensure a future in which children—kids just like Anya—can experience an emotion he’s denied for himself. But now, there’s a selfish longing for a lifetime full of moments just like the present creeping its way in; and for once, Twilight doesn’t force that longing back down.
He takes it all in, fully and completely.
After Anya finishes her attempt at rolling out the dough, Yor goes over it a few more times to make sure everything’s smoothed out before trading the rolling pin for a knife and an empty wine glass. “Be careful, Miss Anya,” she says. “I’m going to cut the dough so we can form the pierogi.” The gentleness in her voice sends Twilight’s heart beating a little faster—a rhythm that continues in its quickened thump, thump, thumping when Yor invites him to form the pierogi, too.
The process of taking a spoonful of potato-and-cheese mixture, placing it inside a small circle of dough, then pinching it shut, is harder than Twilight had been expecting it to be. Finding the ideal ratio of mixture proves challenging. Sometimes he grabs too much and the filling oozes out the side when he goes to pinch the edges together; others there’s too little and he’s left with a flabby half-moon of dough staring back at him. Even Anya seems to be doing better than him.
Saving a bomb from detonation seems easier in comparison.
His humiliation reaches its pinnacle the moment he looks up from forming his latest dough monstrosity and sees Yor’s face. Her mouth is open slightly, head cocked to the side. It’s the same look given to a child after they’ve shown you their drawing of an animal that you have to suspend your disbelief in order to see. One that says, Oh, that’s nice. What’s it supposed to be again?
“Here,” Yor says, coming to stand beside him, “let me help. The trick is in getting the right amount of filling.”
For a moment, Twilight forgets how to breathe. One minute he’s watching Yor grab a spoonful of filling to place in the center of the circle she’s just cut out; the next his body starts to waver—head going light and knees threatening to buckle—when he feels Yor take his hands in her own. She guides them so that they can fold the dough over together. It’s intoxicating; overwhelming—their proximity. In their closeness, Twilight catches the faint scent of roses drifting off her, the same perfume she’d worn on the night of their almost kiss. The room brightens at the memory, Twilight’s senses working overtime, until Yor steps back and gives an encouraging, “Now you try!” Then, it’s just the ghost of her touch that remains and the smell of roses that lingers.
Twilight nods weakly before he picks up the spoon and does his best to recreate what Yor had just taught him. He feels her gaze on him, and out of the corner of his eye, he catches the way her lips are pulled upwards in a hopeful sort of smile. He doesn’t want to let her down.
Nor does he want to let down Anya, who’s stopped her own folding and has turned to watch him place what he hopes is the ideal amount of filling onto one of the dough circles. Before he folds and pinches it shut, he feels her reach out and give his arm an encouraging pat. “You can do it, Papa,” she says.
And so he does.
The room erupts in the seconds that follow. Twilight takes a step back to properly admire the perfectly formed pocket of dough resting on the table in front of him. To his left and his right, Yor and Anya praise his efforts. Even Bond perks his head up from where he’s taken roost in the living room to give an approving Borf. It shouldn’t matter, really it shouldn’t; it’s just one pieróg made on an ordinary Thursday night in late December. And yet, Twilight doesn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face as his family continues to celebrate all that he’s accomplished.
Yes, he realizes then. This is what it means to be happy.
This is the feeling he longs to protect.
From there, the trio finishes forming the pierogi and moves on to cooking them. They’re boiled first, then pan fried. The scent of dough browning and onions caramelizing wafts through the apartment, leaving the three with watering mouths and rumbling stomachs by the time the meal is carried back to the table for them to enjoy. After that, a quiet settles between them. They’re content to stuff their faces with the fruits of their labor, conversation intermittent.
“Can we make them again tomorrow?” Anya asks once her plate has been scraped clean.
Yor beams at her. “I’m not sure about tomorrow, but I’m glad you had fun.”
“We should do this more often,” Twilight says then, almost abruptly. “If you remember more recipes from your childhood, I would love for you to share them with us, Yor.” He doesn’t say it because he thinks a few Ostanian cooking lessons will be beneficial for the mission; not this time. There’s a hope there, hiding in the words left unsaid, that tonight will lay the foundation for something real—something for them to hold onto long after the term limit placed on their arrangement is set to expire.
The smiles he’s met with in response makes him believe that Yor and Anya want to hold on, too.
🤍🤍🤍
Once they’ve finished eating, Anya retreats to the living room and turns on the radio while Twilight works on the clean-up alongside Yor. The pair move in tandem to piece the kitchen back together, content to let the sound of the songs coming from the next room over fill the easy silence. Yor washes; Twilight dries, then puts away. It’s a routine they’ve built for themselves, a wordless synergy established between them. They work well together—like partners.
“Loid,” Yor says after she’s handed him a plate to dry and put up, “look.”
Twilight quickly dries off the plate and sets it in the cupboard before turning his head toward the living room. Through the serving hatch, he sees Anya dancing to some holiday song he’s long since forgotten the words to. Bond sits next to her, paws up so that Anya can move them along to the beat. Though Twilight would never admit it aloud, it’s cute. Another moment he wants to capture and hold close.
Yor voices his thoughts for him. “Aren’t they cute?” she asks, hands folded and brought to her lips. There’s something like admiration in her eyes; a warm flush covers her cheeks.
Twilight nods in agreement, doing what he can to hide his own flush, before turning back to the dishes in need of drying. Yor drops her hands to her sides and resumes her cleaning, too—though the admiration she wears remains.
They continue working until all of the dishes have been washed, dried, and put away. By the time they finish and stumble out of the kitchen, they find Anya and Bond sound asleep on the living room floor. Bond is sprawled out across the hardwood; Anya lays with her head on his stomach, arms and legs outstretched. It’s not the first time they’ve fallen asleep in this position, and yet Twilight still feels his shoulders relaxing and heartbeat evening at the simplicity of it all.
He almost tells himself not to disturb them, to let them be.
Rationality, though, wins out and he scoops Anya up and carries her down the hall to her room. Yor trails behind, quietly humming along to the sound of whatever song’s still echoing on the radio. Bond is slower to follow, not yet fully awake, but he makes his way into Anya’s room, too, before curling up on her floor and drifting off into a comfortable slumber once more. Twilight places Anya in her bed; Yor tucks her in. The two then make their way back into the hallway and gently close the door behind them.
It’s then that Twilight realizes they’re alone.
For a moment, neither of them say anything. Twilight hovers there awkwardly, standing near the bathroom door he must have forgotten to shut earlier. Yor fumbles with the hem of her shirt. There’s a litany of words that live and die on his tongue the longer the silence between them drags on. He wants to thank her for today, for every day—for showing him all that happiness can be. He wants to do something reckless and irrational, like tell her that she’s beautiful.
Instead, the only word he manages to say is her name. “Yor—” he stumbles out, then stops, noticing the way her eyes linger just above his line of sight. He looks up, too, and sees the missed the toe Anya had asked him to hang dangling close enough to brush the strands of hair atop his head. “Oh, Anya had me put it up earlier. Is something wrong?” He tries to sound composed when he asks it, but can already feel the walls building themselves back up—his front fortified once more.
Yor looks down at her feet. Hands continue to fumble with the hem of her shirt. “It’s mistletoe,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what it’s supposed to be, right?”
Oh.
The realization that Anya had called mistletoe “missed the toe” and he went along with it, unassuming, is quickly overshadowed by the sight of Yor taking a step closer to him. Then another. Her movements are awkward and hesitant, but she continues on until the space between them can be measured by a single breath.
“Um,” she starts. “We don’t have to, of course, but…”
Twilight’s body goes rigid. He’s not fully aware he’s said anything until the words are out, unable to be taken back. “No, you’re right,” he sputters. “We should, uh— Since it’s tradition.”
Yor perks up at this. “Right! Tradition!” There’s a brilliant red flushed across her face that Twilight’s certain rivals his own scarlet-colored cheeks. Somehow, though, the knowledge that she’s just as nervous as him makes what he’s about to do easier.
“Tradition,” he repeats.
Then he leans forward and kisses her.
It’s nothing more than a gentle brushing of the lips, something that’s over before either gives it a chance to begin. Twilight’s not even sure he kissed all of her mouth in his haste. But it’s done; he did it. He kissed her. The thought makes him almost giddy—if giddiness were an emotion he allowed himself to feel. Still, there’s a lightness bubbling in his chest when the two step back and stare down at their feet.
The only sound that fills the apartment is that of the radio still playing in the living room.
Somebody waits for you, a sultry voice sings. Kiss her once for me.
It takes a moment for either of them to look up, still processing the gravity of what they’ve just done—the line they’ve just crossed. Twilight’s prepared to issue some long-winded apology about kissing her so abruptly when the sight of her beaming at him—radiant and bright—causes any shred of rationality to escape him.
“We should go out sometime,” he blurts out instead. “On a date. A real date, I mean. Um, if you’d like?”
Yor’s quiet for a moment, and in that single breath, Twilight worries he made a mistake by being so forward. A mistletoe kiss isn’t a guarantee of something more. Jumping into things without considering the consequences isn’t who he is—regardless of the role he is or isn’t playing. He’s about to amend his offer, to throw in some line he doesn’t mean about the front they’re meant to maintain, when he sees Yor open her mouth, close it, then open it again to say:
“I’d like that.”
“Oh, um, great! That’s great, Yor!” The words continue to tumble out, dignity disregarded. “I look forward to it.” Then, unsure what to do next, Twilight steps around her and makes his way to his bedroom door. He stands there a moment, hand gripped around the handle, but he doesn’t turn it—not yet. Instead, he looks back to Yor and adds, “Thank you for everything. I had a great time tonight; I hope we can do this again.”
What this refers to, though, he doesn’t say. He’ll leave it up for interpretation.
“As long as you’ll have me, I’ll be here,” Yor tells him, a warm smile on her face.
There’s a smile of his own that lingers on Twilight’s lips long after they say their final goodnights. And as he lays in bed, already working out the details for his and Yor’s soon-to-be date, he knows he’ll have to thank Anya for the mistletoe later.
Though, a part of him suspects she already knows.