Chapter Text
To think about it as their house is as instinctive as it is now heartbreaking. Yor bitterly notes how easily her key slides into the lock, how she knows to anticipate the creak in the hinges and the little wobble in the coat rack that neither she nor Loid had gotten around to fixing.
Too late for any of that.
She finds her husband sitting on the couch, his face half-lit by the moonlight filtered in through the window. Scornfully, she thinks it makes him look like a spy. Her body tenses and she tightens her grip on the umbrella at the sight. She notices that he’s fully dressed, traveling coat and gloves and dress shoes and all, a suitcase neatly packed and ready to go by the couch.
If he’s noticed how much her hackles have risen at the sight of him, he gives no indication of it, instead raising a finger to his lips and tilts his head in the direction of their bedrooms. Anya is asleep, then.
“You’re leaving,” she says in lieu of a greeting. He probably could have spirited away in the night without letting her know anything, but had chosen to wait for her instead. This realization makes her throat feel numb. “Going back to–” The name of the country – his country – dies on her tongue. She knows he can tell.
He nods.
Yor finds the strength to speak again. “What do I–” tell people, was her first question. What do I do? is her next. Neither makes it out.
But he can tell that, too. She had gotten used to how well he could read her. She had thought fondly of it before she had learned the truth, thought it a blessing that after a lifetime of solitude, here was this rare man who could anticipate nearly her every need. But now, after the blowout between their organizations, between their countries, she feels sour. Used. Stupid.
Finally, Loid – Twilight – speaks. “The initial plan,” he begins, his voice in that strange deep tone, devoid of the affection she had begun to think was reserved for her, “Was a faked death. You would have been unaware, and the child taken into WISE custody if you no longer wanted to remain its mother.”
Yor nods, unsurprised. It would have been easy with the hospital, and she probably would not have questioned it. She had never thought she would be a young widow. But then again, she’d never even thought she would be married. Nor did she ever think she would marry someone who would have been fine with making her think she was a widow, to throw her away like she hadn't mattered.
But Twilight continues talking. “However, an…alternative arrangement has been proposed.” He glances again to the bedroom doors then meets her eyes. His gaze is detached, aloof, and calculating, not the warm lie he had fed her, and she hates it. “Anya. Neither country wants the other to have her, but neither wants her to be an ill-adjusted weapon. It is in her best interest that she is protected.”
The reminder of their dear child, to whatever degree that descriptor had been genuine, and her delicate, psychic mind, makes Yor flinch. So many secrets. “Another stalemate.”
“Yes.”
“So – to carry on, then. As the Forgers.”
“Yes.”
It’s frustrating, how he is always the one with all the information. “Why are you the one asking?” she asks, willing her voice to be as flat and uncaring as the way his voice is now. “Why not anyone from our organizations? How do I know they're all right with this arrangement?”
It must work to some degree because Twilight looks away. “That is–” He sighs. “I thought you would be more likely to agree if it came from me first.”
So that’s the outcome he wants, then, Yor concludes bitterly. To continue this charade.
But there’s a glint in Twilight’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I made a mistake,” he admits. “I have grown to…care for Anya, perhaps more than is prudent for someone in my position. And I…” he pauses, obviously weighing his next words, before settling on, “I know you want to see her safe, too. I know you can protect her, and that she'll let you protect her.”
Were you going to say you had also grown to care for me? she wants to ask. Tell me, then. It's the least you can do.
“It’s a little underhanded, don’t you think?” she says instead. “Using Anya.” After all the times you had called me a good mother.
He grits his teeth at the accusation. “It is,” he acquiesces. “I think being honest about that is the least of what I owe you, Yor.”
The sound of her name in that flat, detached tone makes her flinch. She wishes she had his apparent aloofness, had the ability to treat all this like a game. But for all the secrets she had kept from him, all the spilled blood and weaponry, her emotions had never been hidden. Every furious blush, every awkward laugh at work dinners, had all been real to her. She isn’t him, doesn’t have it, instead has a deep well of feelings and attachments that are now unmoored.
“So,” she tries again, averting her gaze because that dead look in his eyes is too much to bear, “What then? What’s the new plan?”
“I will need to be in Westalis for some time,” he replies. “On paper, a fellowship for Dr. Forger. In truth, some matters to be sorted out with the government. On all this.” That it is all more matters that she won’t be privy to, of course, goes unsaid. “If you agree, Agent Nightfall – Fiona – will be liaising with you while I’m gone.”
Fiona. There’s another sour note. She wonders again how much of anything and anyone he had shown her had been real.
But he's right, despite it all. She loves Anya, loves being Anya's mother, and that Anya had known all their secrets from the jump doesn't faze her at all. That she had loved being Loid Forger's wife, too, should be - is - secondary.
“I won’t be doing it for you,” she says, gaze carefully trained on her clasped hands. “I’ll be doing it for Anya. She deserves stability.” Not how Yor and her brother had grown up.
“That’s more than enough,” he says. There’s a small waver in his voice at that. If she deludes herself enough, she thinks it might even be kindness. “I will write,” he adds. “Correspondence between us will help maintain appearances. I would appreciate it if you could…reply.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“All right.” He stands and takes his small suitcase. She makes no move to help him get the door. “Yor, I–” He sighs again, his gaze softening to something like the man she thought she had known. “I am sorry.”
Yor lets the door close before whispering, “I know.” She wonders if he’s standing outside and listening.