Chapter Text
”I hope your husband dies. And I hope you live. I hope you live a very long life, so that you will forever live with the pain that I felt.”
Bang
Yor opened her eyes, squinting into the light coming from her window. For a moment, she could still see the afterimage of her dreams, so intensely mixed with memories she was sure what was real anymore.
She rolled over on her back, staring up at the white ceiling. She felt a shudder run through her body for no apparent reason. She sat up, pulling her knees close to her body. That empty feeling was threatening to swallow her again. She curled herself up into a tighter ball, as though it would somehow protect her from her worsening mental state.
The nightmares had been worse since Loid got hurt. She’d had nightmares about finding his corpse, nightmares about the teen boy Loid had killed, and the worst of them all, nightmares about Maya Rowan coming to finish the job.
Ever since that woman had shot herself in the attic of the Rowans’ former home, she hadn’t been able to get her out of her head. The hysteria in her eyes said it all: she wanted Loid to die. That was all she had wanted for years.
Even though she was dead, she had a certain paranoia that someone was going to take this new life away from her, after it had been so irreparably altered by the damage Maya had caused.
Her husband did not remember her or their daughter. Her husband wasn’t really himself anymore. There was still a part of him that she knew, yet it was obscured by this new, quiet version of himself that refused to be touched.
She supposed that his stubbornness would always survive, even if someone tried to kill him.
She stood up, running her fingers through her hair in an effort to make herself more presentable, and walked down the hall to Loid’s room. She hesitated for a moment before knocking.
“Come in.”
She opened the door to find her husband sitting on his bed, staring at the floor. He glanced up at her, giving her a half hearted attempt at a smile. His hair was a mess, and there were bags under his eyes. It seemed like his sleep had been getting worse in the week and a half that he’d been home. She’d thought it would be better for him to sleep in a real bed, after over a month spent in the hospital, but maybe she’d been wrong.
“Hello, Yor,” he said. She sat down in the chair next to his bed. “How did you sleep?”
“Well enough. And you?”
“I slept very well,” he said in a rather forced tone.
She didn’t want to call him out on his obvious bluff. His ability to lie had gotten worse since he'd woken up. She wasn’t sure why he kept lying. Maybe it was all he knew how to do.
She stared at his eyes. The look of pure love that had once rested there was gone, replaced with a poorly faked smile and a cordial tone. It wasn’t that he was cold to her, per say, they were simply acquaintances. There had been something there before, and they knew there was something, but it had simply been lost. Now he was forced to rely on what was basically a stranger to him, and he was taking it surprisingly well.
Her husband was a survivor. He would get through this.
“Is something wrong, Yor?” He asked. She shook her head.
”Just thinking,” she said.
”You do that quite a lot,” he said.
”I know,” she said. “How’s your hand?”
He shrugged. “I can still shoot with my left hand, can’t I?”
”You don’t have to shoot anything,” she said. “We’re safe.”
It was this conversation again. The constant fear that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with his job as Twilight, despite his Handler telling him that he was retired. He never really seemed to register it. There were some mornings where he would wake up and think he was somewhere else, either in the trenches of some war-torn battlefield or an unfriendly bed. Sometimes, she was able to catch these moments, where she would find him searching his own room for weapons. She would always tell him that there were no weapons, that he was safe, that there was no reason to fight anyone.
He never really listened.
“Do you want me to make you tea or coffee?” She asked. She asked this question every morning. His doctors had recommended trying to keep up a routine. He had come up with one himself, always the planner. It went as follows:
- 6:30 to 7:00 - wake up. Tea or coffee?
- 7:15 - breakfast, medication
- 8:00 - Anya leaves for summer day camp
- 8:00 to 9:00 - time for Yor and Loid to catch up
- 9:00 - Yor leaves for work
- 11:00 - someone comes to check on Loid
- 12:30 - Yor returns from work, lunchtime
- 13:00 - Anya comes home
- 18:00 - dinner
- 20:00 - medication
- 21:00 - bedtime
This was their summer routine. It would change once school started again. They hadn’t planned that far ahead.
Loid stood up, swaying a little. Instinctively, she reached out to help him, but he flinched, moving away from her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’ll take coffee,” he said. “With extra cream.”
“Okay,” she said. She stood up, following him to the kitchen. She started on the coffee while he sat at the table.
She measured out the coffee grounds, placing them into the filter. She measured out the water - a small amount would do, he never really drank all of it - and turned the coffee machine on. In a few minutes, the coffee was done. She poured the coffee into an old mug, one that Loid had loved a long time ago. She poured a good amount of cream in as well. She could remember a time when he didn’t drink coffee this way, when he drank pure black coffee with no cream. Though he had quit smoking a long time ago, coffee was a part of his life he could never really let go of. He always found solace in routine, in the small mundane things that kept him afloat. Even now, after he’d nearly died at… at the hands of that woman, he still seemed the same.
She placed the coffee in front of him. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m fine, Yor. You don’t have to worry about me.”
He blew on the coffee, steam dissipating into the air. He took a long sip.
“You always add the right amount of cream,” he said.
“You were always very specific about the amount you wanted,” she said.
“I didn’t even know I liked my coffee like this,” he said.
“You stopped drinking plain coffee because it upset your stomach,” she said.
“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “How stupid of me to forget.”
She let out a forced chuckle.
The sound of soft footsteps made them both turn their heads to see Anya and Bond, the former carrying her stuffed Chimera. Bond came up to Loid, licking his exposed skin. He laughed.
While he was in the hospital, she’d had to explain their situation all over again. He’d been surprisingly accepting of it. Maybe it was because he’d been on strong pain medication at the time, and almost anything seemed possible, such as an assassin for a wife, a telepath for a daughter, and a dog that could see the futures
“Good morning, Papa,” Anya said.
“Morning,” he said.
“You forgot my name again,” she said. “It’s Anya.”
“I didn’t forget,” he said. “It just… slipped my mind.”
“Anya, no fighting with your father today,” Yor said. “It’s better for him to remain calm.”
“But he keeps forgetting my name!” She said. “He forgets your name too.”
“He’s still getting used to things,” she said. “Recovery can take a while.”
She was merely parroting what the doctors had told her. Recovery can take a while. No one ever truly fully recovers from this. Just make sure he stays happy and healthy.
Anya could surely hear her thoughts. Anya knew his recovery wasn’t going to be easy, or even possible. The memories he’d lost were likely lost forever, his ability to make new memories was struggling, and there was no way to know for sure if he was even going to get better. It was more likely for him to get worse. That little factoid made her feel nauseous.
She glanced up at Loid, who was staring at the table, spaced out.
“Loid, are you alright?”
He looked up at her, and then looked around the room. He nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Well then, should I make breakfast?”
“I just want some toast,” Anya said. “Papa wants toast too.”
Loid nodded. “She’s right.”
“Toast it is, then,” she said.
Breakfast was a quick affair. Loid didn’t really care what he ate - his sense of taste and smell had been dulled - and Anya didn’t want to ask too much of her for fear that the breakfast would turn out horrible. Loid had been teaching her how to cook before it happened, and she’d slowly been improving, but after the incident, she lost interest. While he was in the hospital, they’d mostly ordered takeout, and the next day they would eat the leftovers. Anya didn’t mind at the time. The attack had affected her too, more than it had Yor. There were nights where Yor would be woken up to the sound of Anya crying in her room. Yor would always invite her to snuggle, but she refused. She was trying to be brave.
Her reaction to Loid’s memory loss had been violent. She was angry at him, and she still was. Yor knew it was because she didn’t understand. She was too young to grasp the idea that her father had changed, but old enough to somewhat understand how dire the consequences were. Her mind reading certainly didn’t help her understanding. She’d said that his mind was different now, his thoughts were messier, his memories seemed warped.
The table was horribly silent. No one really knew what to say.
Loid finished his toast. He stood up, wobbling a little bit. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Hang on, you have to take your medication first,” Yor said. She went into the kitchen, grabbing his prescription meds from the cabinet. He took them, and headed back to his room.
Yor let out a quiet sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. She needed to get dressed before Martha and Becky arrived to pick up Anya to take her to Eden’s summer camp. She couldn’t have people thinking she was failing as a mother. She knew people would try to be ‘understanding’ especially considering her husband’s condition, but she needed to keep up appearances. She couldn’t allow herself to slip and fall back to her long dead habits of holing herself up in her room and staring at the ceiling. It had stopped once she’d come into the Forger family, but who knew what would happen if she allowed herself to fall apart.
She went back to her room, going through her drawers. She really needed to get some laundry done.
She thought for a moment about wearing her favorite red sweater, but decided that it would be too warm for it. She went with a short sleeve shirt, one that was loose and comfortable.
She brushed her hair, throwing it into her usual style. It was a bit messier than usual, but she didn’t have the time to care.
Once she was dressed, she sat down on her bed, nervously bouncing her leg. God, she was so tired. She really needed to get better sleep, but she couldn’t stand the nightmares that kept coming up.
Was it going to be like that forever? Was she always going to remember the woman who stole her life from her?
She sighed. There was a certain hopelessness that had followed her home after the death of Maya Rowan, like the blood had never washed off. She hadn’t killed her, yet she still felt guilty. She wondered if her husband remembered the Rowans. Did he remember the boy? Or his father? Did he remember killing them?
No matter how much those questions burned up her insides, she refused to ask him. She didn’t want to make her husband feel any worse than he already did. She was practically a stranger to him, he wouldn’t spill out his secrets to her under any circumstances, much less these ones.
She loved her husband deeply, yet that once pure love had been replaced by an aching longing. It was almost painful to look at him and not see the man she once knew.
She wasn’t going to stop loving him, though.
“Hey, Yor, are you alright?”
She glanced up at Camilla, who was standing over her desk, nails rhythmically tapping against the wood.
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ve been staring at your typewriter for half an hour, is something wrong?”
She bit her lip, ignoring her. She started to type. She kept her eyes on the paper, not on Camilla.
“How’s your husband?”
She stopped typing. “He’s fine.”
Camilla’s questions came from genuine sympathy. Her coworkers had been there on the night of the wedding, they knew the absolute devastation that had come with finding him in an alleyway. Yor could vaguely remember them offering moral support. She couldn’t remember, she’d been too stressed to care.
“It really is horrible,” Millie said. “I feel so bad for you.”
“You don't have to,” Yor said.
“If you ever need someone to talk to, we’re here,” Sharon added.
“I’m fine,” Yor said. “We’re all fine. He’s going to recover.”
“I hope your husband dies.”
She ignored Maya’s phantom words. They had haunted her since her death. She couldn’t get them out of her head.
She glanced at the clock. It was almost 12:15. Her boss had allowed her to leave early these past few days so that she could watch her husband. Her coworkers never complained about how lucky she was, they understood the gravity of the situation.
“I have to go,” she said. “Loid’s waiting for me.”
They said nothing as she stood up.
It was a long walk home.
Loid was still asleep when she got home. She went into his room, turning on the lights. He opened his eyes, sitting up to look at her.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey. You want lunch?”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“You still should eat lunch,” Yor said. “I don’t want you going hungry.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
“You always say that,” she said. “But you’re not.”
“This time I am,” he said.
“Gosh, you’re so stubborn,” she said with a smile. He didn’t laugh like he usually would.
She prepared him a sandwich, and gave it to him in bed. He ate it hesitantly, taking each bite slowly and carefully.
“Does it not taste good?” She asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“I can’t really taste it at all,” he said. “But it’s not bad.”
“Right,” she said. “I'm glad you like it.”
“Thank you,” he said in between bites. “You’re nice to me. I like that.”
“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you? I’m your wife.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Anytime someone is nice to me, they usually want something out of me. Same goes if I’m nice to someone else. I usually want something out of them.”
She felt the hairs on her arms stand up.
“The truth is, Yor, I’m not exactly a good person,” he said.
“I know that,” she said. “But neither am I.”
“You’re better than me,” he said. “You’ve never had sex with someone just for… just for information. You’ve never killed anyone without a reason.”
“And what if I did?”
“I wouldn’t believe you,” he said. “I’ve only known you for… how long has it been?”
“Three weeks.”
“I’ve only known you for three weeks, but I know you’re a good person. I’m not that,” he said. He finished the sandwich, placing the plate on his bedside table. “I don’t see what you saw in me.”
“You’re a good person, Loid,” she said. “Believe me. You are, deep down.”
He smiled. “I wish I could believe you.”
“I do too.”