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He'd been showing up with bruises more often of late. It was, of course, an unavoidable side effect of the job, but it had become a regular occurrence in the past few weeks.
Handler snapped the latest mission file shut, freshly typed report disappearing whiff of warm paper and drying ink. Sitting before her was WISE's best agent—though the swollen skin around his eye was causing her to doubt that distinction.
"I see no mention of a blow to the face in your mission report."
"I've left nothing out."
"Then how do you explain that shiner, Agent Twilight?"
The faintest hint of a grimace broke through his normally cool demeanor. "This was sustained outside of the latest mission."
"And where, pray tell, did it come from?"
An uncharacteristic blush flooded his face. "Operation Strix."
"Strix?" She laughed. "Is the greatest agent of the West being bested by six year-olds now?"
His face turned, impossibly, even redder. It betrayed a patch of pale concealer under his eye that now only brought more attention to the bulbous swelling. She grinned and leaned forward, chin resting on folded hands, waiting. He relented.
"If you must know, this came from Mrs. Forger."
Her smile fell slightly, eyes narrowing to scrutinizing slits. "Trouble in paradise?"
"It's not like that. Yor Briar is... unaccustomed to physical displays of affection."
Handler raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"
"I've—we've—been practicing. To uphold our image in public. But she is very... reactive."
A sharp laugh escaped her, echoing coldly off of the painted concrete walls and coaxing another grimace from her agent. Handler leaned back in her seat, red lips spreading into a sly grin. Twilight shifted uncomfortably in his seat; he switched the crossing of his legs, smoothed out his trousers, and finally, met her eyes.
"I suppose you are a bit out of practice," she mused. "Should I start sending more honey trap missions your way?"
"That won't be necessary," he mumbled.
"Now that you've lost your touch, I guess I'll have to start assigning those missions to our newest rookie. He can't string more than two words together when addressing a female agent, but then again, he's never provoked violence..."
Twilight sat up, on the defense. "Yor is very inexperienced in relationships."
Handler crossed her arms. "Ah, the perfect choice for a cover wife. Excellent job, Twilight. My faith in you is restored."
Twilight leaned in, eyes narrowed. "I was given days to find a civilian who would be willing to play a wife to a complete stranger, in a country that is very hostile to liars and traitors." He planted an index finger on her desk to emphasize the more unfair details of his assignment—days. Stranger. Very hostile. "Frankly, it's a miracle that I've gotten us this far!"
Handler was silent. She hated to admit it, but he had a point. They should be on their knees thanking this cruel and indifferent universe for dropping Yor Briar into their laps, clumsy as she may be. Briar could break both of Twilight's arms, and they'd still be lucky to have her.
Handler sighed, deflating into her chair. She lazily waved her hand, and with the casual air of someone suggesting a lunch place, offered, "Have you tried seducing her?"
"Remember the hairline fracture to my chin?" he asked flatly.
Handler's jaw dropped. "Who is this woman?"
Twilight sighed and slumped back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair.
"The Briars lost their parents at an early age, and Yor had to raise her brother when she was just a child herself. Her brother—her military trained brother—taught her self defense, which I'm sure she's had to use more than once. Her coworkers indicated that she may have been an escort for a short time. Outside of that, I don't think she's ever had a normal romantic or sexual encounter."
"You don't think?"
Twilight stopped, taken aback by Handler's sharp tone.
Handler continued. "It's not your job to think things, Twilight, it's your job to know things."
"What, do you want me to ask her?" He pointed angrily at his face. "I got this during our session last night... we haven't even managed to kiss yet!"
"Session?" Handler gave a performative shudder. "Poor girl deserves a medal when all this is over..."
He ignored her last comment. "Her past is a very delicate thing to breach conversationally. And trust me, I did my homework, but Yor's early life didn't leave much of a paper trail. The War made sure of that."
Handler took off her round-rimmed spectacles and rubbed the red marks left behind on the bridge of her nose. As frustrating as all of this was, Handler couldn't deny that the consequences for exposing their marriage as a sham would be dire for both Yor Briar and Operation Strix. And she couldn't help but sympathize with Yor Briar, and admire her for trying despite the difficult hands she was dealt. It was hard not to.
When she put her glasses back on, Twilight's professional demeanor had returned: spine ramrod-straight and eyes unreadable even by her. Though, she could guess his feelings were much like hers. She trained him herself to suppress his feelings, and knew that the emotional boy who came to her so many years ago was still in there. Buried, but still fighting for breath, just like her own suppressed inner child. When she spoke again, her voice was almost gentle.
"Does she trust you?"
Twilight looked remorseful. "Yes."
A clock ticked mutely in the corner. Handler said nothing, so he continued.
"This was more or less her idea. She is afraid of getting arrested, of course... and she doesn't want to be the reason we're both thrown in jail and Anya is left parentless..."
He flared his nostrils, took a breath, and continued.
"...but I think she genuinely wants to work on this part of herself—on being 'normal', she says—and hasn't trusted anyone to help her until now."
And in another bitter turn of fate for Yor Briar, she placed that precious trust in an enemy spy. The silence that followed held the enormity of what didn't need to be said. That she was an asset to him - he would inevitably leave her, and perhaps, her capacity for trust would disappear alongside him.
"So how are you doing it?" asked Handler.
He absently brought his hand to his face, wincing when it made contact with his swollen eye, then rested his head on the other hand instead. "Exposure therapy. We only do it at the apartment. We're starting small. Quick pecks on the cheek, a touch here and there to get her to stop automatically flinching when I come near her..."
She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, wow."
He looked away. "I know."
She thought for a beat. "A suggestion, if I may."
"Please."
She leaned in. "Boundaries. I get that it's not ideal to get clocked by your wife in public," A small grin escaped her. "So, yes, start at home. But add some other limitations around it. Keep it to one room, or a small window of time. She needs to be able to feel safe in her own home. If she's constantly on edge, checking every corner, thinking your big, dumb face could come at her at any minute—"
"Flattering..."
"—then of course she's gonna throw punches."
Twilight glared at her. She grinned, and now that she had gotten his attention again, got serious.
"You need to build trust with her. Take it slow. This operation is a house of cards—if this really is a problem, it does need to be addressed. I don't need to remind you of the importance of Strix."
"I know."
They held each other's eyes briefly, a wordless exchange of understanding; the commiseration of two coworkers sharing a thankless job with no end in sight. But then, another grin from Handler.
"You have to admit it's a little funny."
Twilight stood and turned, coat in hand, putting his hat back on. "A pleasure as always, Handler."
"I expect a regular addendum to all future mission reports for Strix," she called after him.
Through the narrowing gap of the closing door, Handler caught a glimpse of red ears peeking out from under Dr. Loid Forger's hat.
"I'm home."
"Papaaaa!"
Before he even had the chance to take off his coat, Twilight was greeted with a screaming child, a barking dog, and the sound of breaking dishware.
"Oh no!!"
He rounded the corner into their small kitchen and stood before Yor, who was crouched over the shattered remains of a plate. Another casualty of war, Twilight thought wryly.
He turned to hang up his hat, and by the time he turned back around, he was already donning the gentle smile of ever-patient husband and father, Loid Forger.
"I'm so sorry, Loid! I-I don't know what got into me!"
Handler's words echoed mockingly in his head. If she's constantly on edge, thinking your big, dumb face could come at her at any minute—
"It's okay, Yor. Let me get that. I still have my shoes on."
With Yor temporarily detained, he reached for the broom. Anya came prancing in their direction, Bond trailing after. She had a blanket tied around her shoulders, a makeshift cape for whatever game she was playing, wielding a banana as a handgun.
"Over here, Agent Bond! I found the source of the dee-turr-inse."
Spies don't wear capes. "It's 'disturbance'."
"I'm a spy who wears a cape!" she declared.
"That you are." He patted the top of her head. It was a Loid signature—paternal, but safely distant. "Keep Agent Bond out of the kitchen, please, until I get this cleaned up."
Yor waved her hands frantically. "No, Loid, it's my fault! I'll get it." She made to step toward him.
"Yor." He held a hand out, and she recoiled from him like he had seen her recoil from bugs. Not going in the report. Handler can kiss my ass.
Yor stopped, shoulders slumping, and surrendered herself to the far end of the kitchen. He shook his head and shot her a grin. He held her gaze until she relented and smiled back, averting her eyes, a blush blooming across her nose and cheeks.
Twilight got to work.
She didn't know how he did that. How he could shut her up with one look. It said without words, "It's okay. I'm not angry. In fact, this is kind of silly, and we can laugh at it." It wasn't the overly patronizing smile of someone who pitied this poor, weird girl who always did embarrassing things. Nor was it cruel and mocking. It was something else entirely, something somewhere in between. A split second smirk that immediately sapped the chaotic energy from the room and concentrated it down to a small, but powerful buzz in her chest. She remembered boys looking at her like this in the few years she was in school. It excited and terrified her.
Barefoot and surrounded by shards of glass, she was in a prison of her own making, and could only helplessly spectate as her fake husband cleared away all evidence of her ineptitude as fake wife.
Loid dismissed Anya to her room, leaving Yor, horrifyingly, with no place else to focus her attention. Her eyes first darted down at the sink, at the few remaining dishes. They traced the colored trim of the teacups, with their rings of remaining tea settled at the bottom. Then, she fixed her stare across the apartment at whatever was on their little television. She saw only formless blobs of color, and the sound of her frantic thoughts seemed to drown out all other sound.
Stupid Yor... you can't watch TV while he cleans up your mess. He's going to think you're ungrateful! Where am I supposed to look, though? What would a normal wife—well, a normal person pretending to be a wife—no. What would a normal roommate...
This is why Yor was so good at staying on top of the cleaning. It gave her something to do with her hands so her brain wouldn't think so much. The running monologue in her head had been the only constant in her life other than Yuri, but it was one she could do without. She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall, hoping to hide the nervous fidgeting behind the (hopefully) relaxed pose. With nowhere left to look, her eyes finally fell on Loid.
The voice disappeared, and her hands slowed their fidgeting. Loid was still in his work clothes, though he'd taken off the suit jacket for the task of cleanup. She would never admit it to him, but she liked him like this. Of course, he was handsome in his full suit, but in his white dress shirt, she could see more of him. The shape of his shoulders; the lines of his back. Later, he would change into a t-shirt, like he always did on warm evenings. That's how she liked him best. It was a version of him that only she, Anya, and Bond were privileged to see. It was a reminder—though this wasn't a real family, and she wasn't really his wife—of the unavoidable intimacy of their situation.
She also liked being able to see his arms. He had nice arms.
The wrinkles of his dress shirt danced over his muscles as Loid swept the last little bits of shrapnel into the dustpan. He ran a finger over the ground as if to check for invisible pieces of glass. Seemingly satisfied, Loid looked up at her and smiled. And when she finally got a good look at her husband's face, Yor's jaw dropped.
"Oh no! Is that—is that from..."
He put his hands up. "It's okay, Yor. Really."
She groaned and buried her face in her hands. "No it's not..."
"Yor. Hey. Look at me."
She looked up. He was closer now. It looked like he had wanted to grab her wrists, but thought better of it. Like how you approach a street dog when you're afraid it will bite you. Can you blame him?
He took a deep breath. "Can we talk about that, actually?"
They were both leaning on the counter now: Twilight facing Yor, who couldn't seem to face him and opted instead to stare numbly at the fridge.
This is a delicate situation, Twilight.
"A... break?" She looked broken herself.
"Not because of the eye! This really isn't all that bad." It was, in fact, bad. His wife had a very strong right hook. "I just think..." He recalled some of Handler's more helpful words. "...you need to be able to feel safe in your own home. And this whole... practice thing is clearly making you uncomfortable."
Her shoulders slumped, if possible, even further. "I'm sorry, Loid."
"It's really okay, Yor."
"It's not..."
"We tried something, it didn't quite work, and now we're just... adjusting the plan."
"Oh God, I'm so weird," she groaned. "I'm a grown woman and I can't come anywhere close to your face without blushing!"
He scratched the back of his head and chuckled uncomfortably. "You're not the only one."
He was, unfortunately, right. The discomfort was mutual. And clearly, she knew that, because she finally looked at him and gave him a sympathetic smile. He returned it and quickly averted his eyes. Jesus, Twilight...
"So... how long of a break?"
"Just whenever you're ready. I'll let you be the one to initiate. And once we are ready to pick this back up... we'll do it a little different. Add boundaries."
"Boundaries?"
"Rules... we'll compartmentalize... maybe we only do one kiss a day. That way, when it's over, it's over for the day, and you don't have to spend the rest of the day worrying about my big, dumb face—"
Yor tilted her head to the side in a wordless question.
Twilight shook his head. "Never mind. Just... whenever you're ready."
"Once a day..." She nodded to herself, confidence restored. "I think I can do that."
They smiled and shared a comfortable silence for what felt like the first time in weeks.
"Oh! I made something for you."
Please don't let it be food.
She turned to open the fridge. Twilight swallowed.
She turned back around holding what looked like a wet rag in a ziplog bag. "For the bruising... ice can sometimes be a bit too much. This should give you some relief from the pain, and maybe help with the swelling some..."
Twilight breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "Thank you, Y—oh."
Before he could process what was happening, Yor had stepped up close to him. He gripped the edge of the counter behind him. He was trapped.
She was so close. It brought back a memory. Not of years ago, in the rubble of his old hometown, but of just a few months ago. In this very apartment, sitting side by side on the couch, performing for an audience of one belligerently drunk brother-in-law. He had locked this memory safely behind a door in his mind, but every once in a while, it would kick that door down and come rushing back to him. And every time it did, he was faced again with the vision of Yor on that night, in that moment: cheeks flushed, eyelids heavy, wearing that red sweater dress... crawling toward him on the couch...
Here and now, in the kitchen, with the only the sound of their breathing, she was nearly chest-to-chest with him. She raised the bag and held it gingerly to his swollen eye. His shoulders relaxed.
"It does feel good," he said, exhaling a short breath.
Her lips curved into that smile. "I'm glad!"
That night, her hand was planted in the middle of his chest, pushing firmly... It could have been her strength, but a very small part of him knew that he went down willingly. His eyes had closed when he accepted his fate...
Right now, his eyes were not closed. They were taking in every centimeter of Yor's oblivious face. Her smile had faded, and her brow was furrowed as she periodically lifted the cold pack from his face to inspect the damage underneath. He noticed flecks of gold for the first time in her vibrant red-brown eyes. She definitely seems more comfortable around me now, he thought, trying to ignore his racing heart.
His eyes flitted down to her lips, and it was that moment when she finally really looked at him. She froze, and he knew that she now noticed the closeness as well.
She had called him 'Darling' that night...
In a desperate bid to regain control of the situation, he moved to take the cold pack from her, but his treacherous hand landed on hers and refused to move away. Her hand was cold. He absently stroked it with his thumb. Neither of them moved—his hand on hers, her hand on the cold rag held to the mottled skin on the side of his face. Their eyes were locked on one another, until Yor's strayed down to his mouth.
Are we really going to do this now? His brain did a frantic rundown of the plan they had just made. One kiss per day, but we're taking a break... until she initiates. Their noses brushed. She didn't back off. He held his breath.
All aboveboard, he supposed...
"Are Mama and Papa kissing?"
"Eeeee!"
The cold pack slipped from Yor's hand. Both of them reacted to quickly catch it, and somehow in the chaos of it all, she head butted him.
"OOF—" Both hands flew to his now busted lip.
"Loid, I'm so sorry!!!"
"It's okay, Yor," he grunted through watery eyes, "Really..."
Twilight turned to see Anya over the counter, grabbing a banana out of the fruit bowl.
He tasted copper. "I told you to go to your room, Anya."
"But my 9 millimealer pistol broke..." She held two bananas up. The one from earlier had a broken stem. He snatched both out of her hands.
"Bananas are for eating."
He placed the bananas back in their bowl and turned to Yor, who was stuttering a constant stream of apologies. She was now holding two homemade cold packs.
"I-I made two... so you could swap them out when the other one got warm." She mumbled the last part with a downcast head, through a curtain of black hair.
"Good thing. Thank you, Yor." He grabbed both.