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The front door lock turns; the sound wrenches him awake and away from the trenches. With quiet foosteps and a heartbeat so loud he thinks his eardrums could burst, he creeps out of his room, through the hallway and into the living room.
His wife, one shoe kicked off her foot, freezes in the doorway. "Sorry," she says. "Did I wake you?"
"No, I couldn't sleep," he lies. It sounds less pathetic than thank you for waking me up. He crosses the room to her; helps her out of her coat. All of her smells like cleaning products, some sort of soft floral soapy fragrance with undertones of bleach. It's a familiar scent, a Yor kind of scent.
He can't help himself; he leans a little into her space, breathes her in as he folds her coat over his arm. "Tired?"
"A little," she says, pulling pins out of her hair until it unravels, free and loose down her back. He opens his palm; she drops the pins there. "I think I'll make some cocoa before I turn in. Do you want any?"
"Sure," he says.
He goes to hang her coat, then ducks briefly into the bathroom to put her hairpins in the little box in the cabinet behind the sink mirror. When he reemerges, she's got a saucepan of milk on the stove already. He gets the mugs out; adds sugar into hers. This dance in the kitchen is easy. Perhaps even the easiest part of their half-contractual, half-sincere relationship. Here, he knows her body, knows the movements of it. Knows that she's good with a knife but even better with the dishes, knows that despite her lack of cooking skills she makes a mean cup of coffee. Or cocoa, as she makes now, pouring the steaming mixture into their mugs, a little self-satisfied smile on her lips.
"There you go," she says, and they pick up their respective mugs, and she stirs hers a little as he'd put sugar in it, and he waits until she's done stirring before taking a sip from his own. They don't move to the living room, simply leaning on the counter side-by-side as they drink.
Maybe it's the cocoa that does it. Maybe it's the kitchen, quiet and known and sacrosanct. Most likely, however, it is simply Yor and the silent comfort of her company that makes him say, "I have nightmares, sometimes."
She is not surprised. "About what? If you don't mind saying it, of course."
"The war, mostly."
"You fought in it?"
He keeps his gaze on the rippling surface of his cocoa. His hands are trembling around the mug. He breathes in, then out. "They fed us in the front. Both of my parents were killed in an air strike, so I—well. It seemed like the obvious choice." These were all the truth, which feels dangerous to say. Loid Forger isn't supposed to share anything in common with that angry boy who lied about his age so he could enlist.
Yor is quiet for a long, long time. "Were you... A medic?"
"You mean have I killed anyone?" he asks, chuckling. "It's okay. I have. I wouldn't be here if I hadn't."
"I'm sorry," she says. "It must've been hard."
He turns a little to face her, then takes her hand. It's all callused, rough from work. Rough from—oh, he realizes—battle. When he brings it up to his face, pressing his lips to her knuckles, he sees the curving lines of blood resting under her nails.
He has suspected something for a little while, now. He thinks she might have suspected him, too. The way she watches him in this moment, eyes keen and unblinking, he knows he is at a crossroads.
The way forward is so very clear to him, he could do nothing but walk it. Turning her hand in his, he kisses her palm. Into her skin, he confesses:
"The killing wasn't the hard part."
A hitch of breath. In his grip, her hand tenses. "I see," she says, blinking quickly, ducking her head to hide behind the curtain of her hair. "I see."
"I had hoped you would."
With a small, despairing voice, she asks, "What do we do, now?"
"We finish our cocoa before it gets cold," he says. "Then, we go to sleep, and tomorrow, we carry on."
"That's it?"
He smiles. Or rather, his mouth tugs into some unfamiliar shape that might be a facsimile of a smile. "I've said too much, already. Haven't you?"
She averts her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I understand." He finishes his cocoa. Places the mug in the sink. "You should sleep; it's late."
"Yes," she says, and she too finishes her cocoa, and they walk to the front of their doors.
"Good night, Yor," he says, hand on the doorknob.
She smiles at him, tentative as the first bloom of spring. "Sweet dreams, Loid."
And they were, of cocoas and warm hands and a lullaby long forgotten.