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A spy can never be vulnerable.
In his years as such, Twilight’s heard many stories of failure. Bright, promising men and women that have aimed to last in the business for years, some cockier ones attempting to surpass him. All vanished from official agency records, a “FAILURE TO COMPLY” the only remnant of their previous existence in the system. The reasons for each swirl together at some point: secret trysts with targets, betrayal, blackmail. A younger Twilight would scoff at their disloyalty, lit like a bonfire with the desire to forget. Now, he only shakes his head and sighs, stealing a precious second to mourn what could have been.
Before this, he never realized how those former agents must have felt.
The balance between danger and domesticity has never been an easy one, his own part of a father born out of hazy memory. Twilight has portrayed many people, but this is entirely new territory. It’s harder than he thought, walking Bond around town in between heists and urging Anya to complete her homework and making sure Yor doesn’t see anything amiss.
Yet…he’s failed to keep the last one, hasn’t he? During that night, with Yor’s lowered gaze and softer confession, he’s all too aware of how close she is to stepping behind the facade. How wide-open he could convince himself to be.
In another world, the conversation would be seen as sweet, touching. A loving wife expressing her devotion to her husband. An exhausted husband, learning to rest for a bit in his wife’s searching gaze and soft smiles and hidden strength.
Not here.
So, Twilight plans to forget. He plans to answer Yor’s inquiries with a winning smile, craft false promises until what she’s said is a distant memory for both of them. Nothing has to change. (Nothing should change.)
In the end, it’s the little things that force him to remember.
He gets home after midnight from another mission, stepping as light as possible over the wooden floorboards. His foot brushes a soft lump at his doorway. It’s a white shirt, neatly folded, smelling of the airy laundry detergent Yor buys. Even in the moonglow, it looks suspiciously similar to the one she burned.
Another morning, he’s in cheerful Loid Forger mode, humming along to the radio as he makes breakfast for his family. He starts scrambling several eggs in the frying pan, and then wonders if they're running out. A quick glance inside the fridge shows that they are well stocked, several egg cartons stacked on top of each other. Out of curiosity, he checks the kitchen cabinet where they keep their coffee. It reveals the same thing.
(Come to think of it, he hasn’t had to shop for groceries in weeks.)
He starts seeing it everywhere—seeing her everywhere. A spotless home, soothing baths waiting for him, little notes in her handwriting updating him on completed tasks. Anya asks him about homework less, his inquiries about such homework met with a squeaky “mission accomplished!” and swinging salutes. (Is she playing at being a spy again? he wonders, and then tries not to question the following Bs on recent assignments.)
If it were only things like that, it might feel easier to wave off. But Yor does more. It starts with her pulling him aside and giving him a novel he recognizes off the shelves of a local bookstore. She mentions, “The girls at work said this was a relaxing read, so I thought you might enjoy it!” Her butterscotch words follow him through cloudy skies and gunshot smoke, nights spent huddled over small lamps and cold tea. (He finishes the book in two weeks. It’s a bit too dramatic for him, but something about the female lead’s kindness reminds him of its giver, and he smiles in the secrecy of midnight.)
Another book: this time a plain black journal, left for him on a morning after she and Anya have headed out. Twilight takes out the note in the front and holds it to the light, studying her neat cursive. It seems like you’ve been thinking a lot lately. Perhaps this can help you organize your thoughts?
(In the back of his mind, he remembers that Yor is the one who gives Yuri and Anya little gifts the most, and thinks, Oh.)
At first, he thinks of using it for upcoming missions, attempts at decoding WISE messages, lists of suspects and bribery and disaster. He stares at the cover for a few minutes, a sense of wrongness at the idea soaking into his bones. He walks to his bedroom and stores it in his dresser drawer instead.
He asks about it, once, when he notices that the usual swing on the radio has been changed to velvet jazz and silky symphonies. Yor’s cheeks turn pink as she answers him, but she’s smiling. “I’ve noticed that you enjoy this kind of music the most. Anya and I like to listen to it, too, so I found a few different stations to try!”
A silly, selfish part of him drinks in the sight of her: her still-flushed face, her open, excited gaze, her stunning grin, a strand of wayward hair from her bun. He reaches out and takes her hands in his, rubbing her knuckles with his thumbs and drawing them—drawing her—closer to his heart.
(He’s not sure if he’s Twilight or Loid Forger right now. A part of him whispers that it doesn’t matter.)
“I see,” he chuckles. “What gave me away?”
Yor turns pinker, but manages to reply without stumbling. “I’m not sure! You just seem calmer when a song like that comes on.”
“Mmm. I could use a bit of calm, I think.” He looks at his wife, and feels nothing but peace. He shuffles across the room, tugging her along in his grasp, and lets go of one hand to turn the radio on. “Dance with me?”
A classical piece fills the room, violins and flutes mixing together in a harmony. Yor stutters on her yes. He wants to marvel forever at this woman who has become the closest thing he has to his undoing. He resists the urge to draw even closer as he guides their arms into a typical waltzing position.
They glide across the room, and Westalis’s best agent finds that the soaring strings echo the tugging of his heart.