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Despite popular belief by almost everyone who knew them, Loid Forger did not hate Yuri Briar as a brother-in-law or a person in general, though his knowledge of the latter’s status as an SSS Officer while being a spy himself made their relationship silently contentious, even without factoring in one Yor Briar-Forger, and Yuri’s own…particular devotion to her. It would not have been a lie to say that Loid Forger occasionally wished his brother-in-law would, if not shut up…then at least turn down his unique brand of intensity.
But now, as he watched his wife lean over the edge of her brother’s coffin, he wished for nothing more than for the younger man to wake up and start throwing accusations at him about making Yor cry.
He wished would Yor would say something too, even if it was just a sobbing rebuke against fortune or god. She’d been silent all day, a sharp contrast to the low sobbing whose sound had dominated their apartment in the days following the news and Yor’s initial devastation.
Yor now stood with her back to him, face hidden from view. She was stock still, hands white knuckling the edge of the coffin, showcasing her restraint as she struggled not to reduce the lacquered oak to blackened splinters in her grasp. She looked smaller, diminished, the ineffable strength she carried within her slipping off the slump of shoulders and the bend of her back to erode away under the deluge of her misery.
She looked miserable, and he wished so badly he could do something for her, to soothe her tears and heal her heart. But grief was an insidious and devastating thing, and he knew from experience that nothing save time and support could heal its wounds, and nothing short of resurrection or time travel could erase them entirely.
Still, he felt horribly useless.
A tiny sniffle broke him from his circling thoughts, and he turned his attention to the only other person in the otherwise empty room.
“Papa,” Anya whimpered, her hands held out beseechingly, and Loid pulled her from his lap into a fierce hug, pressing a kiss to her hair before tucking her head under his chin. He turned his mind to happy…er, thoughts. About how the three of them were still safe, they were in this together, Yor wouldn’t have to face her grief alone. It had become standard practice with their telepathic child, him and Yor thinking more positively, ensuring any stray thoughts she read weren’t too catastrophic, or depressing, or traumatizing, or any any combination of the three.
And if it kept them from falling into dark spirals in moments like this, then that was even better.
But that didn’t mean Anya didn’t have her own demons at the moment. “...my fault,” she whimpered into his neck, tears dripping onto Loid’s suit and eating through his heart like acid.
“Peanut,” he whispered back, rubbing soothing circles along her back while rocking in his chair, “It’s not your fault,”
Sniffles turned to sobs as she pushed away from him, “B-but…Bond saw Mama crying…and I needed to stop it…but I, but I-!”
“Anya.” Yor stated, voice trembling with barely suppressed emotion, but resolute nonetheless. She turned to them, reaching out steady Anya’s back, “It’s not your fault. It wasn’t your responsibility to stop this in the first place, it’s not your fault for failing, and it’s not Bond’s fault for not seeing the cause. It’s no one’s…,” she trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence and commit to the lie it held. Because it was someone’s fault that Yuri was lying in a coffin, two bullet wounds hidden beneath a suit and a litany of pre mortem bruises and cuts concealed by the mortician’s best work.
Just the idea nearly sent Anya into tears, and Yor was even more stricken. “Anya,” Loid murmured, still brushing his daughter’s hair, “Would you go find Franky? I think your Mama and I could use a moment alone,”
Tiny hands clenched his jacket in a death grip but she nodded. “Okay,” she said in a tiny voice, squirming to be let down and reluctantly leaving the observation room. He followed her with his gaze, before gently taking Yor and guiding her to a small closet, trying to ignore how badly she trembled under his touch.
The door locked with a soft click, and he wrapped her from behind in a tight hug, laying a soft kiss upon her neck. “I’m here for you love,” he whispered, “Whatever happens I’m here,”
That earned him a whimper, then a shuddering breath, and then a scream.
It was short and sharp and almost animalistic, a banshee’s wail of pure primal loss that would’ve alarmed everyone in the building if Loid had not the foresight to drag them into a room he knew for certain was soundproof. But the sound rang hauntingly familiar in his ears, one that Loid, that Twilight, had heard too many times before, but all the worse due to its source.
She screamed again, and again, three spears of misery that pierced his heart and brought forth silent tears. The screams devolved into surprisingly soft sobs as Yor’s legs gave way, Loid following her down and controlling her collapse.
“What am I supposed to do now?” she sobbed, her voice hoarse and small and lost.
“Live, Yor,” Loid pleaded calmly, even as tears dripped down his cheeks to fall upon her mourning dress. “Not just survive but live. It’ll be hard, love, I know from experience. But you’ve done it before, and you won’t be alone. Me and Anya will be here for you, every step of the way.”
Yor sniffled miserably, and Loid pressed kisses to where her neck met her shoulder, humming his mother’s lullaby all the while.
Yor rose on weak legs, and Loid hefted her to her feet. He kept a firm grip around her waist as they left the room, and kept her stable as she guided them back to Yuri’s coffin.
He looked wrong. His skin too pale, his expression too placid, his hair too neat.
Yor thought likewise, reaching down to muss his hair, her touch featherlight as if he’d shatter like porcelain.
“Someone’s only truly dead if they’re forgotten,” he murmured to her, “May his memory be a blessing to you,”
Yor leaned into his touch, “Thank you. I love you so much,”
“I love you too. Whatever you need, I’m here for you,”
Yor froze, nuzzled into his neck.
“Do you have any idea who did this?” she asked, her voice still distraught, but with an edge he recognized, as sharp and cold and lethal as a knife.
Loid inhaled hesitantly, “I have…inklings, but nothing concrete,” he answered, despairingly honest. Despite the fear they fostered, the SSS had no shortage of enemies, and it only took one person pushed too far to decide gunning down an off-duty officer was worth it. Of course, there was also random chance, or a mugging, or a particularly deadly display of SSS office politics…
“Please,” Yor pleaded, and his heart ached at the desperation, “If you find out anything, anything at all, anything about …” her voice briefly failed her, “...This. please tell me,”
“I will,” he promised without hesitation. And he would, difficulties be damned. Sylvia was sympathetic, and he could spin this as an investigation into a possible plot to disturb the peace, if not a direct disruption to Operation Strix’s success.
But no matter what story he needed to spin, excuse he needed to make, or lie he needed to tell, he’d get Yor the answers she sought, the closure she sought. She would’ve done the same if he’d been in her shoes.
And if Yor wanted to burn down the world, then he would gladly hand her the tinderbox.