Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Children cry. A lot. 

From frustration, in disappointment, over minor scares...

Eventually you develop a sense for the difference between a cry over something they'd call "no big deal" when they grow up, and a cry over something serious. The latter sends a jolt right to the chest. Summons a primal fear felt in every nerve and fiber of the body.

She's felt it thrice. 

Once, when Yuri was being charged at by a raging bear, who, upon hearing his cries, she immediately sent back into hibernation. The next, when he'd seen a face peering in through his window in the middle of night. She'd told him it was just a curious owl. In reality, it'd been a vengeful straggler from her latest hit who she promptly took care of.

And the third time, in the middle of providing visual descriptions of some criminals to the police.

Yor jolted when Anya let out a weak but heart-stopping wail, her wide emerald eyes bubbling over with tears.

"M-Mama, I’m scared."

~✂~

Her heart was still pounding in her ears even twenty minutes later, loud enough to drown out the rushing wind.

With a consoled Anya (and dog) safely watched over by a truly impromptu, last-minute babysitter, she was onto Norna Square, known for its clock tower, to save her husband—a spy.

Just thinking the word sent a queasy pulse through her.

When she thought of Loid, remembered his gentle, albeit serious aura, she used to feel a sense of warmth and comfort, and even savored it. Her eyes stung.

But it was a lie. A mask. 

Anya talked about her father like he was a hero. And well, he was, in a way. He quite literally—well would have—lost his life trying to stop an act of terrorism. But he was lying to them, and using Anya. While Anya didn't seem to acknowledge it in her confession, Yor didn't believe Loid was intending to stay her father. He was a spy, and when his mission was over...

She didn't even know what exactly his mission was, but it must have involved Anya, and likely Eden somehow.

To use a child...

She shook her head, shooing away the indescribable tangle of emotions weaving within her. Peaking above a row of buildings, a clock face could be seen.

Quieting her footsteps, she glided carefully along the square, making sure the dark hood of her borrowed jacket hid her face well. She didn't want the terrorist to recognize her, flee, or worse: doing something rash with his explosives.

There was twenty minutes left until the explosion, meaning she likely arrived just in time to prevent the explosives from being planted. She could easily take the man down, tie him up, and leave him for WISE to find.

But then what? 

She absolutely wasn't going to leave Anya, which brought up the question: should she confront Loid or continue their charade? Would she even be able to act convincingly normal in front of him? And even more pressing, was he...a threat?

He was definitely dangerous, and a spy working for an enemy government, but Anya assured her that he had no intention of harming Ostania (and she'd know, God, her child was a telepath!) and Garden had never sent her after as a WISE agent before, as far as she could remember.

A distant bark sounded, pulling her from her thoughts.

Focus, Yor!

From behind a brick corner, she could see a familiar man and German Shepard leaving a car, a heavy bag hauled in the former's arms. The bombs, likely.

She scanned around the tower, noting all the oblivious, innocent civilians: playing children, relaxing elderly couples and busy mothers, surrounding the potential blast zone. Her teeth gritted. 

It was going to be a massacre.

Bloodlust rising in her, a molten steel hit her veins. She had to reign it in. She'd received no kill-order. The spiky, dark-haired man wasn't her client. But she'd treat him as if he was the thing closest to it. Rip him from his war-mongering, self-righteous pedestal, and send him crashing bloody to the dirt.

As quiet and discreet as a shadow, she followed him into the long, dilapidated building. It was better not to do this publicly.

The man was cocky. He swayed up the creaking, wooden stairs, a disgusting little smirk on his face, probably cackling internally.

Yor didn't enjoy inflicting pain, but she had a feeling she was going to enjoy this at least a tad.

With the door now shut behind her, it was time, and she wasted none of it.

"Hey, scumbag!"

At the top of the staircase level, the man jolted and swiveled to her, eyes wide. Following anger, recognition zipped through them, and he stumbled backward onto the steps with a squeak.

"How are—Fuck, you're one crazy bitch!" He threw an order and arm out to the dog. "Kill her!"

The Shepard snarled before charging down the stairs. Its master shot in the other direction.

Eyes narrowing, her form tensed in preparation. She’d expected the canine to be her first opponent—and in fact, intended it that way as it’d be easier to deal with them when they were separated—but she didn't want to harm the dog. At the end of the day, it was an innocent caught up in a bad man's scheme.

She let him charge, growl echoing and saliva flying, and just as he was about to chomp on her arm, she sidestepped, letting him soar by as she spun and gave him one strike to the neck, right over a pressure point. The dog deflated instantly and went limp, skidding over the floor into a dusty corner, now asleep. It was the same move she pulled on the raging cow from Eden's interview day. Painless (she hoped?) and effective.

One down, one to go.

She silently zipped up the stairs, tensed for any potential attack to come flying down toward her. But there was no point in stealth, the man was waiting at the top of the second staircase.

Shock, anger and fear flitted across his face as she charged at what was likely a frightening speed to the average person. He immediately shot a shaky, desperate hand into his bag.

That's not good.

Halfway up, daylight streaming from a window now lighting her form, he ripped out a stick grenade, activated it with a twist, and flung it towards her.

The seconds stuttered and slowed as the adrenaline hit her. One hand broke the window, as the other caught the hot, burning grenade, before shooting it to the sky.

A bright light flashed and a boom shook the tower. Screams immediately followed. The explosion was loud, but small, contained to the clouds and spurts of now falling ash.

Pure amazement descended into horror on her target’s face, as her blood-shot eyes blackened in pure, blood-lusted focus.

With a clawed hand, she caught him by the throat and slammed him into the wall, soon replacing her fist with her forearm to keep him trapped. In his shock, he dropped his bag, sending its contents scattering.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw bricks of TNT, wires, and tape tumble down a couple stairs. Gritting her teeth, she returned her eyes to his shaken gaze with a glare.

In Thorn Princess mode, her aura was pretty intimidating. The man's knees went weak as an acrid smell entered the air—and stained his pants.

Grimacing, she briefly wondering if she should feel guilty, but held her position regardless, immovable as a steel prison.

The mess wasn't anywhere near as repugnant as the man before her.

"Have you set any other bombs?" She hissed in his face. Some shaky gall entered his gaze, warring briefly with fear, before fizzling out.

"N-no," he croaked. Her gut told her he wasn't lying.

"Are any of your comrades nearby or still on the loose?"

His head shook to the best of his ability, and he mouthed a “no.”

Relief flooded her, like a cold wind on a scorching day, dulling the blazing tension in her muscles to a simmer. In the calm, she became achingly aware of the stinging skin of the hand she burned when flinging the grenade. She went right back to ignoring it.

She let out an anxious breath. "Good—"

Distantly, with her heightened hearing, she registered the creaking of a door—the entrance door. She turned her ear slightly, to the confusion of the man in her hold, and picked up light murmuring and footsteps.

Darnnit.

Her relief disappeared as quickly as it came. She had a new problem.

Her husband was here.

With, presumably, other WISE agents. They weren't supposed to arrive for another five minutes, but the explosion must have alerted them and hastened their pace.

Loid was going to find her, with a beaten up terrorist in her grasp, bombs at her feet, and Anya missing.

Oh, this is not going to look good.

Their footsteps echoed louder.

She could hide, easily escape, but the criminal would likely be interrogated and forced to give up a description of her—

Unless...

The man flinched when her eyes fell on him.

No. No, Yor , she scolded herself, you can't kill without orders. Even if they’re traitorous scum.

And the man likely needed to be taken alive and vetted for all information that could be useful for stopping further crimes—like who had funded his rag-tag team of probably broke college-aged kids anyway.

They were just a level below her now...

Taking a deep breath, she braced herself. 

She was a liar, she knew that, but outside of assassin work, when it came to family and the truly important things, she tried to be honest. "Loid Forger" may have been a complete fiction, but she was still raising a child and running home with the man playing him.

She had the bomber on his knees, hands in the process of being tied behind his back with a wire, when they stumbled to a halt before her, guns raised.

Now that she knew who he truly was, the calculating ice of her husband's almost permanently intense gaze stood out starkly. He had the cold and determined eyes of someone living a ruthless existence. They widened as they saw her. 

"Stop!" He shot out an arm, signaling for the startled men, one moustachioed and the other sharp cheek-boned, to lower their weapons.

He could practically see the panicked thoughts racing through her husband's mind as he stuttered for the proper response. As his shocked colleagues stared on, all that came out was a confused and broken, "Y-Yor?"

She didn't know what to say either. She didn't even really know how to react to him, to now, to everything. She tried to muster up the face of someone determined and decided, but a weak cringe found her instead.

"Hi, Loid."

Chapter Text

Shock ricocheted through him. His thoughts rushed at an unprecedented speed, crashing into and tangling with one another into a ball of useless words that left only a single one to be heard. A name.

“Yor!?”

His first instinct was to hide his gun, search for a lie. But he knew the sight of him was damning.

Could he pose as SSS? But what was she even doing here—without Anya—with their suspect incapacitated at her feet? 

Keith Kepler was subdued and tied up with what looked to be a wire.

Tightly...and expertly. 

Yor stood in an unfamiliar hoodie, staring awkwardly, but her posture sure and confident despite the terrorist kneeling in front of her. Her whole demeanor held an unfamiliar coldness that seemed eerily natural on her. A shiver went up his spine, and a chilling, anxious feeling tingled at the back of his mind. 

The whole scene—Kepler’s capture—looked professional. 

It dawned on him then that there was a possibility WISE—and the SSS—weren't the only the one's after the terrorists—

His thoughts quieted for a moment as a cold descended upon him.

—And that Yor may not be what she seemed.

Was it possibly she was affiliated with an intelligence or paramilitary group? Or was this all just a coincidence? Yor had a strong sense of justice and physical giftedness that could back it up.

But the way she carried herself...

He felt his colleagues staring at him, judgement, and suspicion in their eyes as they waited for him to take charge in this precarious situation involving his cover wife. 

Get it together, Twilight!

Shaking off his mental weights, he lowered his gun and made his face soften with concern and surprise.

"Yor, what are you doing out here? That man is dangerous!" He took a few steps up, his peers tentatively following, weapons lowered but still readied. 

Yor's cringe deepened, and she looked at him in a way she’d never done before. It almost made him stop in his place, in his attempted deception.

"I—I know you must be shocked to see me here, but it's my—well our—duty to take care of this threat," he gestured to Keith Kepler, who blinked up at them, weary, confused, and smelling of...? He wrinkled his nose and suppressed a shiver. What had Yor done to him? "Go to safety, and let us handle this. I'll explain later."

Yor's cringe fell into a look of resigned disappointment. Panic rocketed through him. 

She wasn't buying the subtle implication he had a completely (well, comparatively) unsuspicious reason for being there: work for the SSS. His thoughts began to ping-pong, looking for a new strategy—

"I know everything, Twilight ."

His heart jolted in his chest, almost bursting right there, as the room's tension shot up about ten degrees. The sudden sensation of doom fell over him and he braced himself.

Beside him, he could sense his colleagues readying for a fight, their guns raising. Yor's eyes narrowed, picking up on their change in demeanor, and she shifted into a stance similar to the one she’d taken when he’d confronted her as a SSS officer. Distantly, he realized, if Yor was threat, he would have to, by WISE operational standards… eliminate her.

He needed to de-escalate this, and fast . 

Heart pounding, he positioned himself between his peers and his cover wife, hands in a halting signal, stuck out towards each side of the potential conflict, as if it would deflect a bullet or stop a supersonic kick.

"This doesn’t need to end with a fight. Clearly our goals here align.” To an extent. “Let's find a way to resolve this so both our organizations can leave happy and unharmed."

Yor's gaze darkened, slightly with embarrassment, and she looked away, posture now softening. "I truly don't want to fight any of you, but I will defend myself if I have too." 

He let out a small relieved breath.

But his peers remained tense, characteristic of the spies they were, still weary regardless of her words. But he knew Yor just enough to be certain she was telling the truth—or did he?

She'd been hiding something major from him all this time (well, for a month and a half, but that was a lot for a spy of his caliber), and like some naive rookie, he known no wiser.

Gesturing towards Kepler, Yor said, "you can take him," like the criminal was a peace-offering, before a worried look rose on her face.

She turned more directly to him. "My reason for being here is a somewhat...personal matter.” Her voice frayed and quietened. “It involves Anya." 

He jerked in surprise while Noontime let out a faint, “huh?”

Grief bloomed in his wife's eyes and a sinking feeling descended upon him. It was an emotion that he hadn't felt in a long time. One he wasn't supposed to feel, but it didn't surpress the stumble in his speech.

"Anya—What's happened to—"

The hall echoed with a door's rattle.

They all straightened, senses alert. Despite the distance, the battle-ready authority of muffled voices was unmistakable—SSS officers.

Shit. The day could get worse.

A newfound villain toppled the current enemy on everyone's mind, replacing it with one focus: getting the hell away from the secret police.

Even Yor looked startled, like she wanted to run as well.

Not going to report us to the state immediately then? A small bit of relief.

Nodding, Noontime mouthed, "Let's go," to the rest of the team.

He moved to haul Kepler over his shoulder, despite the mess, but he found himself grasping at air as Yor swept the man up, tucking him under one arm.

He was familiar with Yor's strength—dammit, how did he not see the truth, whatever it may be—but his peers weren't, and though they were hardened and world weary spies, their eyes almost popped out of their heads at the sight.

Though he admired Yor’s strength, it did no good for any of their sense of ease in that moment.

Quietly as they could, they sprinted down the hall to an exit on the eastern side of the building, Yor leading the way. 

She was trained enough, he noted, to quickly memorize and piece together the building layout before entering.

Secret agent? Ex-military? Mercenary?

God, Yor was a professional shadow, more similar to him than he’d realized.

His teeth gritted.

He’d put his mission, his organization, and himself in an untold danger by being an oblivious fool. He should have investigated her more—inquired more into that mysterious job her colleagues and brother had mentioned. What he said about her presumed work the second time they met now carried with it a dark irony. It was a brutal image, those gentle hands that cared for Anya so kindly, stained with blood—

A thudding rang out behind them from their would be pursuers. 

It's not the time to get lost in a thought spiral, Twilight!

They sped up. 

Kepler bounced in Yor's uncaring hold, looking increasingly nauseous. No WISE agent was going to enjoy sitting in one of those small, unventilated interrogation rooms with him.

They blasted through an old wooden door, entering the back alley of the building. Darting to the van, he could only hope Kepler's scattering of bomb equipment would stall the SSS long enough for them to drive away unnoticed.

Noontime and Eventide shot him weary a look as Yor neared the car, both seemingly about to protest, but he shook his head. In their rush, they were unwilling to argue with him, or Yor, who took it upon herself to chuck Kepler into the trunk before slipping into the backseat, smooth and sure as a cat. She knew her way around a kidnapping.

Eventide pointedly took shotgun, while Noontime resumed his usual role as driver, leaving him to sit beside a now awkwardly shifting Yor.

As they zipped away from the crime scene, he worked to steady his breathing and his mind. He needed to be ready for a fight.

The getaway drive was usually the period of time spent finally resting, but he knew without even looking that no one was ready to do so yet. 

They’d bounced from one danger to the next. Terrorists to the SSS, and now to Yor, and whatever damning secrets she carried with her into their dingy, WISE issued car. 

He needed to do damage control, stat. Ensure Yor had no intentions of harming WISE, by whatever means necessary…

Jaw clenched, he eyed her discreetly. But knowing her, she could probably sense it.

Damnit!

He’d been unimaginably foolish and short-sighted. He could hardly recognize himself—the so-called greatest spy in the West! How had he overlooked it? Handler’s lessons from his training days rung on repeat in his mind.

From their very first meeting, Yor had shown signs of being more than what she claimed: in how she could sneak right past him, discern when his professionally discreet gaze was on her, and hold her own extremely well in a gunfight.

An assassin, maybe?   Unease twisted through his gut.

It was hard to imagine Yor, the woman who didn’t hesitate to chase after a purse-thief or accept a stranger’s child as her own, being willing to kill whoever for a payout. 

As much as it made him queasy, it’d be fortunate for them if her loyalty could be so easily bought…

She’d claimed earlier, much to the health of his heart, that she knew everything. How was that possible? Was she simply trying to scare them, or did she overestimate what she knew? Knowing his codename, though, was pretty damning…

While unlikely, it was possible she’d somehow overheard them discussing mission details earlier today in the street—but wouldn’t she have been at the dog fair with Anya? Where even was Anya—

His head was beginning to pound, hard enough even his internal monologue was being muffled. It was useless and silly of him to let his mind, his most valuable asset right then, become overrun. 

In the end, he knew he was grasping at loose threads, none of which were strong enough to carry any one theory. The truth about her intentions, occupation, and how the hell she even found out about him or what they were doing wouldn’t be unraveled so easily.

He could find some relief at least, in the fact that Anya wasn’t in any immediate danger, as indicated by Yor’s lack of urgency. When she’d mentioned the girl earlier, it’d left a needle of anxiety pierced right through his chest.

He let out a long sigh.

Attempting to update his profile of Yor in his mind, he found it almost shockingly easy to imagine her readily battling a terrorist—and a combat dog, from what he saw at the building entrance—armed with grenades—

How did she even handle the first one that was set off? It hadn't seemed to hit anything, much to their confusion. But maybe Keith just had terrible aim.

With searching eyes, he looked over and found his answer. Cradled in one hand, was its charred and blistered mirror.

"Yor, your hand-" He began groping for the first aid kit stored at his feet, before he felt scrutinizing gazes fall on him, and not just from his peers.

Yor was looking at him, surprised, with a warring in her eyes, focused in a way that suggested she was studying him.

With where they now stood, she was likely uncomfortable with him acting so...amiable with her. 

Understandable, of course. 

Embarrassment rolled through him. In Yor’s presence, he’d momentarily reverted back to acting in the Loid Forger role.

But what could they do? 

With one injured hand, it would be difficult for her to treat herself. He popped open the kit and plucked out some mild ethanol, ointment and bandages. 

He ignored the prickly look Eventide shot him from the front. Getting on Yor’s good-side, showing that Loid Forger wasn’t a completely soulless fiction, could be useful.

But not so useful, was how it was making him look compromised in front of his fellow agents. 

Holding out his hand, he gave her the opportunity to place hers in his. Images of peace meetings ending with a handshake emerged nonsensically in his mind. 

It took her a moment to decide.

Her dainty hand, that clearly held so much power, yet fit so small in his palm, was raised hot, red and blistering along the pads of her fingers and mounds of her palm. He repressed a grimace.

Swabbing her wound, he gently sterilized it. She hardly even flinched. Distantly, he wondered how many injuries she'd had to treat all alone, and for how long. If she'd been secretly injured while they had been together as family, dealing with it all on her own, as to not risk worrying them. 

Rosy eyes looked on as he worked, increasingly softening with a watercolor sadness. 

Some part of him couldn't look at it, and he let his attention jolt away with a comment that found itself flying from his mouth.

"Yor, did you use this hand to catch and throw that grenade?" He didn't hide the slight tinge of awe in his voice, though he did manage to mask the fear. 

She was definitely dangerous. 

Yor didn't notice. She normally blushed when anyone complimented her, but maybe the disdain she certainly had for him now had changed that for him. 

Nodding, she let out a little, "Yes," as if it were the most mundane thing in the world.

His, Noontime’s, and Eventide's wowed eyes met in the reflection of the rearview mirror, though theirs soon hardened in deepened suspicion and weariness once more.

Unease twisted his already aching stomach, inching him ever closer to hurling. WISE, or at least his current team, was definitely going to be taking a perfunctory stance against his cover wife. 

Which, he could admit, was not unreasonable. 

Of course, he'd have to follow Handler's orders, and at least mostly abide by Noontime, their team leader's commands, but…Operation Strix was being roasted over a pit right now, and he didn't want to add any more timber to the flame.

Could he salvage the situation with Yor?

On one level, western spies weren't highly regarded by most Ostania organizations, on another, Yor hadn't tried to kill or report them yet, and if she was in a similar line of work, she could potentially have sympathy for their cause.

It was a long shot. A fool’s dream. 

He’d criticized HQ’s gobsmacking request of eight stellas from Anya by the end of Eden’s first semester, but here he was daydreaming about resuming playing house with a battle-hardened woman of shady affiliations who’d just found out her husband lied about everything, including the child she cares so deeply for, and was actually an enemy of the state.

His stomach churned. 

Yor could simply be waiting for a better moment to throw them to the state's wolves, or take them into her own jaws and deal with them herself. She could be a secret police officer who had been playing a role since before their marriage even started, continuing it in the hope they’ll lead her right to WISE HQ, right to the "rats nest" itself, as the SSS liked to colloquially call it. She could be a spy, searching for a lucky way in on their operations. His world darkened. If Yor had been playing them, what did that mean for Anya—

He was spiraling again, and based on how his chest clenched painfully, he was also inching ever closer to cardiac disfunction, if he hadn't gotten there already.

He had to remind himself one more, at that moment, he wouldn’t be able to discern Yor’s true allegiances or intentions with any certainty. It was going to require time and investigation. Losing himself to anxiety would be the opposite of helpful.

By the time he was done wrapping her wound, Yor was staring off into space, with a blank expression that sent a shiver through him. 

He had a feeling what'd caused it. A guilt bubbled distantly within him and he clenched his hands together, trying to wave it off.

Another desperate part of him wanted to ask about Anya, but he suspected he could afford to give Yor a moment of rest.

Leaning back into his seat, he took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. One eye remained on her.

"So,” Noontime began, “we need to drop this punk off first..." A pointedness underlined his tone. They didn't want bring Yor anywhere near HQ.

"Excuse me," Yor’s soft voice startled them, "but could we pick up our—my daughter from her babysitter first?” A wave of relief flooded over him at Yor’s reconfirmation Anya seemed to be somewhere safe. “I promised to get back to her as soon as I could.

He didn’t miss how she’d correct herself, or the shame bubbling wilder from that pit deep in his mind he refused to acknowledge. 

It was a useless emotion, especially in spy-work.  

Regardless of what she thought of him, it was good that Yor held so much affection for Anya. And potentially useful as well…

He was a scoundrel. But he was a spy first and foremost, and it came with the territory, as much as it wasn’t good for his stomach at that moment.

Noontime and Eventide exchanged a disagreeable huff at her request. He knew what they were thinking: she was going to lead them into a trap. It wasn't an unreasonable worry.

He watched Yor's eyes slowly widen in realization. "Oh."

She mustered up a reassuring smile—or at least an attempt at it. 

"Don't worry, I wouldn't resort to that, of course! Believe me, because—I mean, you know, well—I wouldn't really have…to." They flinched and she trailed off awkwardly before looking away. An embarrassed flush crawled up her face at her verbal stumble. 

Any early attempts to lower his heart rate were instantly made futile.

Did she just imply she could easily take on all three of us? 

Considering her natural strength, and coupling that with the likelihood she was professionally trained....it was hard to imagine, but not impossible. He was certain his two partners were now remembering how casually Yor had lugged Kepler one-armed while sprinting. Their faces were as stiff as a corpse’s. 

Well, Yor definitely was not an intelligence agent if she was verbally slipping up like that—

Or was intimidating them part of her strategy? He sighed at himself.

Tension bubbled between the four of them, frothing dangerously at an all-time high boil.

"It's alright if you're not comfortable with it. I can go myself. I'll just get out here..." She reached to roll down the door window. (Was she planning to jump from it while in a moving car!?) 

They all panicked, but not in concern for her safety. She could clearly handle herself.

Yor could be lying. Could go to the SSS or whoever she worked for, and with her knowledge of their true faces, put on their backs the most accurately aimed targets they'd suffer in their careers.

Yor startled at their reaction, before it dawned on her. 

Her head fell into her hands, and she sighed, rubbing her face. "I just need to get to my daughter."

Something panged in his chest at her visible distress over Anya. He coldly shoved it away.

Then a thought came to him.

He was almost disgusted with himself for thinking it, but it was part of the job: if he vouched for her by offering to accompany her, while displaying his unchanging care for Anya…it could be the first few steps towards amiability, and a future working relationship—or at minimum, garner enough accord to deter a report to secret police. The fact she had come with them to begin with instead of doing so was already a good sign, that is, if this wasn't a trap. But something told him that last option wasn't the most likely. As much as he could imagine all the possible ways she could have possibly been tricking and manipulating them, just as much as he or more, Yor's care for her family—Anya—had always felt like one of the most genuine things he'd experienced. 

Ignoring that ever-flooding pit, his pointed gaze met Noontime’s in the rearview mirror. It’d be hardly unreasonable for the agent to carry some doubt in his judgement, at least in regards to Yor, but he hoped the faith he built up carrying at least half of WISE’s stellar reputation on his back would do him some favor now.

Noontime looked weary, but he was about to voice his thoughts regardless when Eventide beat him to killing the mood.

"Why would we trust you—Who are you even?" He snapped.

Yor flinched back.

Twilight gritted his teeth, even as Noontime shot him a look. "Eventide—" 

"My identity is not something you should be concerned about. I assisted you, and my country, without orders, out of my volition," Yor began in a voice he didn’t recognize. It was deeper, carrying a rich intensity. "I have no interest in instigating further conflict."

With a sigh, more reminiscent of the groan a powerful engine emanates when gearing up, an unflinching flame rose in her gaze.

Shit .

"I don't work for the state. I have nothing against the West, and I won't act against anyone unordered. All I care about right now is doing what’s best for my daughter." 

Noontime slowed down by a streetside as they braced themselves. Yor's chilly words lowered the temperature of the car by a couple degrees.

"So excuse me, but none of you have the right nor the power to keep me here. Or to interrogate me."

He let her words echo for a moment.

"I'll accompany Yor," he coughed out. 

His implication rang clear: he’d take responsibility for monitoring his cover wife. He let out a small relieved breath when Yor didn’t immediately protest, only cringing slightly instead.

Noontime let out a long sigh. 

"I'll drive you two to wherever she is, after we drop Kepler off at H-point." A temporary WISE meeting spot. "It'll give us a chance to check in with Handler..." He picked up on the unspoken meaning: backup would be provided, in the form of the current agents available, and whatever else Handler decided to organize just in case things with Yor went south.

He agreed, and Yor nodded, completely unfazed by the implications of their words, before looking out the car window once again.

A faint echo of her words repeated itself in his mind. She doesn’t work for the state.

His guess about her being an assassin was being substantiated. He let out a shaky breath at that newfound image of Yor in his mind.

He could already feel the verbal—and possibly even physical—whipping Sylvia was going to give him when she inevitably finds out her supposedly best spy chose an underworld-affiliated woman to be his cover wife.

And Anya—

She likely wasn’t going to be growing up, or at least, for the duration of Operation Strix, living in a complete home, with two “happy” parents, who may not be in love, but at least liked one another and got along well. Old memories, half-buried in rubble and blurry with tears, flickered at the edges of his mind.

His stomach churned once again, like a python coiling around its victim.

He was a bastard. And one that really might hurl.

Chapter Text

They arrived at H-point, an abandoned underground facility and cozy home to a community of spiders, rats and many cavernous, cement-walled rooms. While Yor was left to wait outside with a disgruntled Eventide and nervous Noontime, he had the privilege of delivering Kepler to B-team and describing the mess to his fellow agents. As it was his screw up (and his cover wife), he’d taken responsibility.

Once Kepler was properly shackled and stuffed in a locked closet, he’d explained the situation to a befuddled B-team. He was then, though shakily, accused of pulling a prank. At his responding glare, they professionally scrambled to secure the area and prepare for a threat.

Then, it was time.

He took a series of deep, steadying breaths, even straightening his cuffs and lapels despite being alone, before dialing the phone. It rang twice and was answered with a click.

“Hello, Handler.”

“Twilight,” she said by way of greeting. “I assume you have a mission update for me?”

“Yes. We’ve successfully apprehended Kepler at position B1. Though the bomb dogs and the explosives have yet to be secured, we believe the threat has largely been neutralized. The SSS were in the area and have likely dealt with dogs and the equipment.”

“Very good.” A long sigh came muffled through the phone. “A surprising but fortunately uncomplicated finish to a hazardous case. Well done.”

His grip tightened around the phone. It was time. He had to tell her, but the words were uncharacteristically stuck in his throat. 

At his silence, Handler drawled, “is there something else?”

He gulped, unsticking his tongue. “There was an unforeseen…complication. I’ve yet to determine its severity as a threat.”

Handler responded with loud silence, wordlessly pushing him to fill the quiet. 

“You see…” He braced himself. “When we arrived at the scene, Kepler had already been disarmed…by Yor Briar.”

There was silence, then, “Yor Briar, as in your cover wife?”

“Yes.”

“...Are you serious?” Threat bellied her tone. “You’re not one to joke, which is something I prefer about you right now.”

He takes a deep breath in. “When we arrived, Yor Briar had Kepler on the ground, hands tied behind his back. The SSS followed moments later, and we escaped via car, with Kepler in the trunk and…Yor Briar in the back.”

“...”

“At this time, Anya is with a babysitter of Yor’s selection. I do not know their name, but Yor would like to retrieve her from them as soon as possible.”

Harsh breathing sounded through the phone. “Is your identity compromised? Your current location?” 

“...Yes.”

“Do you know what her intentions are? Who she works for? How she knew anything about our operation?”

His heart began to palpitate uncharacteristically. “Well, she has stated her main concern is our—is Anya’s wellbeing.” Handler scoffed. “And that she is not affiliated with the state. She even appeared frightened when SSS arrived at the scene,” he added, before bracing himself. “And based on that, and on her skillset, I believe that she is likely an assassin, or some sort of professional combatant, not affiliated with a government agency. She has not yet explained how she knew anything about Kepler…”

Faintly ringing in his ear, was the sound of what he could swear was seething. That wasn’t good.

“Fucking hell, Twilight!” He winced. “And you’ve brought her to H-point!?”

“I thought it best to maintain contact while avoiding conflict—”

“Stop. Just stop.” She let out a bitter laugh, then sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know where to even begin.” 

After a moment of tense silence, she continued. “You understand, that we can hardly begin to trust a word she says, not without a thorough investigation that she surely won’t make easy.” She released a deep sigh, and began again, voice darkened. “As it stands, Yor Briar is a threat of potentially severe consequence. She is someone we may very well have to neutralize. Are you prepared for that, agent?”

A cavity of dread yawns opens below his feet. Such a question wouldn’t typically be asked of a WISE agent, because of course an enemy to their mission would have to be swiftly and resolutely dealt with. And yet, Sylvia felt the need to remind him of that.

Maybe unwisely so, the next words tumbled from his mouth. “Handler, I believe that neutralization should be a final course of action after thoroughly exhausting attempts at diplomacy.” He cringed, understanding he was treading close to insubordination. “If we preemptively attack Yor, we risk violent conflict with her and her organization, potentially losing agents and our foothold in Berlint in the resulting fallout. And if Yor were to disappear, her husband would naturally be the first suspect investigated for it—Even worse, would be having to contend with an already hostile and suspicious Yuri Briar backed by the training and resources of the SSS who are more than equipped enough to peel back any layers of deception we may use to conceal the crime—our actions. And,” his mouth went dry as he worked to keep his voice level, “the consequences her death would have on Operation Strix would be dire.” Anya’s cherub face, brightened with a smile turned towards her mother, quickly flashed through his mind. “Anya’s development and ability to perform as a student would be severely impaired by the loss of her mother.”

He waited in a tense silence for a response.

“Agent, I’m well aware of the implications.” An embarrassed heat rose to his cheeks. There was hidden commentary in her tone. “I was simply making it clear where we stand. I’ll have an urgent inquiry put out to our agents and informants for any information on a woman fitting her description to see if we can discern anything about her before making a move. In the meantime, retrieve Anya, and continue to avoid conflict while gathering as much information about her from conversation as you can. Don't let her out of your sight. Try to convince her of the possibility of an amicable relationship, as audacious as that may seem. I’m sure you know the drill regarding that, as well as the necessary safety precautions you need to start taking from here on out. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll send some agents to tail you during Anya’s pick-up, as safety assurance. Anyone who Yor Briar hasn’t already encountered should be wearing a mask as well.”

“Of course, Handler.”

“Alright. Don’t disappoint me again.”  He twitched at the remark. A clang rang out from the phone, indicating she’s hung up.

He slumped back against the wall and took a deep breath, running a hand over his face.

They really were in deep shit. A covert intelligence agency was at its worst in situations riddled with unknowns. And Yor had just brought a whole minefield of questions into their path.

“She is someone we may very well have to neutralize. Are you prepared for that agent?”

A crystalline dread was forming in his chest, conspicuously where his heart would be. He needed to carve it out, box it away, as he’d been commanded to over and over by the end scolding word or the end of a belt during his training, and even more so in the throws of a mission. 

He’d committed countless ruthless, callous and even devious acts in the cold name of pragmatism, to serve world peace. Though it left households fractured, hearts broken, and careers in smolders, it had all ultimately served to spare their nations of countless irrevocable tragedies. He could live with that, linger with the burden of it like a trailing phantom, invisible to all but himself, and easily exorcized when necessary. And yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept the possibility of killing Yor. 

A criminal, a killer, an enemy Yor may be, but nothing yet could convince him the maternal affection, she displayed was a ruse. And building from that truth, her genuinely selfless love for her brother and her community couldn’t be entirely dismissal as an act either. Some true goodness existed within her. He couldn't afford to be naive, but overlooking signs in the name of caution was also unwise.

Memories of old, kind words, once a source of comfort, flickered through his mind. "You're being a wonderful father to that girl!"

And regardless of the truth, Yor was still the mother of his daughter.

Anya wasn’t truly his, but she saw him as her papa, and Yor as her mama, and for all his accolades as a shapeshifting, two-faced actor, he didn’t know how he could look that little girl in the face if he were responsible for her losing yet another mother—how he would wipe her tears as she grieved, knowing full-well he was the reason she was crying—all the while raising her with a belief in kindness and morals, for a mission no less, knowing that he hadn’t even treated her with the bare minimum respect to those principles. And then after all that, still continue to claim his true goal as his own?

It was a line he wasn’t certain he could cross, and that was terrifying to realize in light of how near it was being drawn at his feet. 

~✂~

The drive to east Berlint was yet another quiet, tense ride that his colleagues spent watching Yor out of the corner of their eyes. Yor could definitely tell, if the attempts to burrow herself in her borrowed hoodie, skin flushed, and face grimacing, meant anything. 

After the second miffed but pleading glare sent his way, he got the message. They were definitely getting a divorce, but up until that point, he still had husbandly duties to uphold.

He cleared his throat. “Please cut it out. Let’s not make this more uncomfortable than it already is.”

They gruffly complied, and not without a few thrown scowls. 

“Thank you,” Yor murmured to her right, where he was sat. They were sharing the backseat row of the van.

“It’s not a problem. And, please don't take it too personally. Spies are suspicious by nature, as you might expect. And some may claim anti-social as well.” He forced a congenial laugh.

Yor tries to give him a smile, but it comes out more like a cringe. He should be grateful for it regardless. Her giving him any time of day was both a mystery and miracle. Though he was starting to sweat a little, there was no better time than then to start his…interrogation.

“Yor, I know my words may not mean much to you, but I apologize for my deception. Regardless of my reasonings, its was still a callous choice.” Her expression didn’t change. He suppressed a gulp. “I’m sure you understand, being in a similar field yourself, that our kind of agency has to be very wary about what is known about us and by who. Information privacy is key to our safety. And…there are now existing concerns about how you learned about my identity and who else may be privy to that information…”

He looked pointedly to her, expression weary and questioning.

“...Only Anya and I are in the know, so you don’t have to worry.”

“That’s a relief.” And brought up many questions he would have to get to later when Anya was present to confirm. “But Yor, I do worry that this may become a conflict of interest for you, between us and your agency?”

Her eyes widened, before darting down in contemplation. “I think it should be…alright.”

There was agency then.

“That’s a relief, but…how are you certain? Were you briefed on our organization?”

“It just seems that our goals don’t generally conflict.”

That wasn’t necessarily reassuring. Some might claim the SSS worked for national peace as well, and yet they were always rabid to grab a WISE agent by the throat. Fear fueled mischaracterization was a staple of their world.

He donned a delicate smile. “It’s good to hear that we’re fighting on the same side.”

Yor blinked, as if she’d not realized it, before a small smile grew at her lip as well, uneasy as it was.

He let the moment breathe, before beginning again.

“Yor,” he called in a soft, breeze of a tone designed to garner trust, “while I do believe you, it would put my highly-cautious agency at ease knowing what we’re dealing with…” He leaned closer, a sympathetic expression on his face. “ Who we’re dealing with.”

Yor’s face hardened.

Dammit. Though her response was hardly unexpected, he hoped his colleagues weren’t listening. “Yor, I—”

“Surely you understand that I have a code of secrecy with my organization as well.”

“Of course, but—”

“And besides,” Yor looked down, “spies are naturally suspicious. Would you believe whatever I say anyway?”

Sylvia’s words flashed through his mind, stirring in his gut.

“Yor, I do…” 

Trust you?  

At Yor’s somber, reproachful expression, he swallowed his words. “Let’s talk about this some other time, Loid.”

They sat in a tense quiet for a few minutes more.

When that suffocating van finally pulled up alongside an old, greying neighbourhood surrounding a cement ball park, he and Yor practically shot themselves out and onto the roadside.

From the distance, he could see a pink head bobbing around the court, weaving around mounds of headed fluff—dogs—trying to bounce a little ball past a tall, ginger-haired girl, the babysitter, presumably.

At the sight, he felt half the tension he was carrying leave his body, like a rucksack slipping from his shoulders. 

Anya was alright, and she even looked happy. 

She squealed as a shaggy white dog bumped into her, trying to steal her neon pink ball. 

A smile grew on Yor’s face and she jogged closer. “Anya!” At the call of her name, Anya turned to the sound and leapt towards her mother, soon clasping her legs in a hug. 

It was a joyful scene, though bittersweet in his eyes. Normal “family” moments like these were likely in finite supply.

As Yor laughed and dropped down to pull the girl in a real hug, he finally came up to them, silently trying to give them space for what seemed to be an unusually emotional reunion. But it all for not. 

Wide, emerald eyes, quickly shot to his and froze, a wave of emotion welling within them. The emotionality of her expression was slightly perturbing.

Gently, Yor said, “See who I brought back safe and sound, Anya?”

Safe and sound?

Tears bubbled and splashed as the girl, bawling, crashed into his knees. “Papa!”

Surprised, he briefly froze until Yor pulled Anya off the ground and placed her on his chest with a pointed look. His arms moved to support the child as small hands rose to cling to his neck.

Something wrenched within him, as it always did when he heard Anya cry. God, he hated the sound of it. Currently, it was somehow worse than even when she was kidnapped. It reminded him too much of days long past, of a person long dead. 

Before he knew it, he came to cradle the child’s head, offering soothing words as he bounced her in his hold like she was a baby. Yor gave him an approving look. Anya’s crying soon settled, leaving behind only a drenched spot on his suit jacket.

Still patting the child’s back, he felt a new anxiety rattling his heart. What had caused this? This was an awfully big reaction to just seeing him again after a few hours.

His heart dropped. 

Yor claimed Anya knew he was a spy as well—Did it lead her to think that when he slipped off earlier he’d been leaving their family—leaving her behind?

“Loid?” Yor called, slightly concerned, the babysitter staring from behind her.

Clearing his throat, he shot off a quick greeting to the babysitter before urgent questions regarding Anya and what had occurred earlier that day leapt from his mouth.

He sent a pointed look to the babysitter, wordlessly asking if they should find somewhere more private to talk.

Yor exchanged a glance with her that seemed to carry its own unspoken conversation.

The woman, clad in dark sportswear smirked. “I’m glad you got your man.”

“Again, thank you so much, truly.” Yor replied, before jumping slightly. “Oh, here, let me return this before I forget.”

Nodding, the girl whistled, and to his bewilderment, and to Yor and Anya’s amusement, a golden retriever fetched her a bag.

Pulling out Yor’s own pink coat, they traded garments. “Anything for you, Miss Thorn.”

Thorn, not Briar?

Yor chuckled. “You’re too sweet.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever described me using that word.”

“Anya thinks you’re sweet too!” The girl waved from his arms.

Distantly, he realized this woman may have been a business associate of Yor’s. He made sure to memorize any details about her just in case it could help with WISE’s research. His eyes darted between her long pony-tail, athletic-build and angular face. He looked down to a seemingly other one of her dogs, which had a distinctly vulpine look to it. A bit strange, but it was probably best to stop expecting normalcy from people. 

Laughing, the woman responded to Anya’s comment with a returned compliment and offered to continue babysitting. Yor looked gracious while he did his best to be polite and hide his own scepticality. 

He definitely needed to dig up some more funds to ensure Frankie’s consistent availability as a babysitter—or find an actual professional to hire. That is, if Yor let him keep Anya and WISE allowed him to continue Operation Strix. He couldn’t be sure of anything yet.

Antsy to hear Yor’s explanation of what had happened, they quickly said their goodbyes, allowing a minute for Anya to pet and farewell each individual dog, before moving to exit the ball court. As they went, he couldn’t help notice that they had a stalker.

Turning to the big white, black-socked, pooch, he raised a brow. “Who is this?” The dog simply stared up at him. 

What is it some sort of spy dog Yor’s associate had trained and sent after them? 

That’s crazy, Twilight. 

Or is it—

“That’s Anya’s doggy,” the girl chirped. 

He startled. They had been at an adoption fair, though the pup seemed much larger than Anya had originally claimed she wanted. 

He shot a questioning look to Yor, who grimaced behind a reassuring smile aimed at Anya. “Well…”

After Yor’s explanation, Twilight was faced with Anya’s tears once again, though this time in a much more threatening, do-as-I-say type of manner. It hardly seemed reasonable to adopt a former bomb-dog/experiment, but to his surprise, even Yor encouraged it, giving him a meaningful look he was likely not yet factually-equipped to understand. Sighing, he mentally added monitoring the family dog for signs of threat to his daily to-do list and another thing he’d have to convince Handler to accept, that is, if the Forgers didn’t fall apart.

Impatience now weighed in his chest. He hadn’t gotten anywhere close to answering his most pressing questions and safety concerns, and they only seemed to be piling up with Anya’s unusual reactions and the suspicious babysitter.

He hurried towards the van surrounded by inpatient, watching WISE agents. Anya stared at them with almost an exasperated and pitying look, much to his increasing confusion. 

As they drew closer, Yor slowed down, drawing them to a collective halt. He would have been annoyed if he wasn’t obviously the person most deserving of the metaphorical doghouse at the time.

“Um…where are they going to be taking us?”

Oh, how had he not seen this coming? He took a deep breathe. This was going to be a hard sell.

“Likely a WISE hideout,” he murmured, still uncomfortable referencing his spywork in front of a six year old. Though she was likely loving this. Yor cringed. “It’ll be safer to discuss confidential topics there, especially in light of a potential information leak,” he argued. “And it’ll give us some space to work out an alliance of sorts, if that’s possible.”

“I don’t want to be…cornered. Not with Anya there too.” 

Translation: she didn’t want to brawl a whole agency of suits in front of a child.

“That’s fair, Yor…But, this is very difficult for us as well, when it comes to our sense of safety and security. We still haven’t learned how you came to know about my identity. Please understand, it's in our best interests to make…amends of sorts with you as well.”

Yor’s skeptical gaze flickered down to Anya’s encouraging eyes and then back up. “Well, you haven’t asked how we know, have you?”

“I…” His cheeks heat, realizing he’d asked her just about everything else. Though he honestly thought readily volunteering that information was the expected thing to do. “Well, how, then?”

Yor’s hold on Anya’s shoulders stiffened. Ruby eyes darted to the left, as she seemingly mulled over a response, two major indicators of an oncoming lie. His eyes narrowed.

Yor and Anya’s gazes meet and spend an odd moment in seemingly shared anxiety, before Yor’s expression steels. “We just happened to have overheard you discussing the…situation with your colleagues.”

A lie, likely, he coolly decided. His mind flickered through the day's events nonetheless, checking every moment he’d spoken aloud about the mission in public.

“We heard when Papa was on the telephone with boss lady!” Anya shouted.

Yor quieted her as his mind reeled. Her claim wasn’t entirely implausible, though he wasn’t sure how much they could have really gathered about him via that call. What were they doing there to begin with?

Anya cringed, gaze darting back and forth between her parents. “Uh—Anya and Mama were there because the bad guys were trying to kill Anya for stealing their dog and hearing their evil plans!”

“What!?” Oh Lord , the amount of trouble Anya could get herself into was nothing short of science fiction.

He supposed that explained why Yor had brought up concern for Anya during their first true meeting as spy and woman of agency-concerning affiliations. The girl could be severely traumatized by the experience.

He looked down at Anya, meeting her characteristic soul-searching, slightly unimpressed stare. 

She seemed fine...?

“I’m okay Papa,” she patted his leg, “Mama saved me!” 

He smiled at that, hush relief bubbling in his chest. “Of course she did.” His eyes, softened in appreciation, find Yor’s, She gives him a small nod. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe now, Anya. But we’ll have to discuss how you found yourself in such dangerous circumstances later.”

Anya’s cheery face twitched with trepidation. “Let’s go now Papa.” She grabbed his hand, and with all the might of a small kitten, began pulling him along.

He followed, Yor and the dog just a step behind him. Her steps were shorter, and her expression somehow dimmer. Another layer of somberness now lingered, one he would have to investigate along with the unusual amount of hesitation she’d displayed early when revealing an unproblematic truth. His gut was telling him something more was going on, something his mind was intent on thoroughly dissecting. Yor was likely being cooperative for Anya's sake. Their first few steps towards amicability were clearly unsteady at best.

No part of Operation Strix had proven to be simple or predictable thus far, and so, he must prepare for every possibility, from the obvious to the unthinkable.

Chapter Text

“...trusting to the point of naivety…reserved, polite and empathetic…lacking in confidence…” Sylvia drawled as she flipped through his file on Yor, quoting excerpts. 

His cheeks heated as she continued. He couldn’t quite believe it were his own words that he was hearing after the revelations of the day.

His handler crisply set the file down. “Tell me, agent, do these seem like the core traits of a ‘professional combatant’ as you’ve suggested?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m certain that included in that file is a report that describes in extensive detail how Yor Briar almost kicked me into the afterlife at Anya’s Eden acceptance party.” As well as one on her fascination with knives.

How did I miss it?

“Yes, buried under an outrageous stack of bills and spending reports,” Sylvia intoned.

He searched his mind for every moment he’d noted a particular trait of Yor’s. Gentle-natured? Proven in every social interaction witnessed, especially with Anya. Naive and inexperienced in many facets of life? Startlingly evident. He still couldn’t quite believe how easily Yor had accepted his concussive therapy lie. 

Could an individual of those traits survive, or even continue to exist, in their kind of work? 

 His gut twisted.

Or had he simply been an easy mark, overlooking obviously incoherent information? And why? Why had he done something so uncharacteristically foolish?

Even now, he couldn’t be convinced that everything had been a lie.

He rubbed his temples and sighed, attempting to soothe away a headache that was a day—a whole life, really—in the making. “I know, it all sounds quite unbelievable. Rectifying what I know of Yor’s demeanor with this new information has been an ordeal of its own.”

Sylvia's brows fell. “It’s your job. It was your job to conduct an accurate character assessment on this woman before becoming actively involved with her.”

“I know,” he admitted quietly. “And I apologize.”

She simply stared at him for a moment.

 “Well, you were at least able to confirm that she works for some kind of agency, one with a strict secrecy policy. It’s a good place to start.” She nodded to the hallway, where Yor and Anya sat in an off-shooting room of the underground office space. “But we need more. And quickly. I have yet to hear back from our other agents or informants with information on her.” 

He nodded, rising from his seat. “I’ll handle it.”

“Good. I’ll be listening.”

He suppressed a cringe behind a nod. Of course the place was bugged. 

“Don’t go getting performance anxiety.”

“I would never.”

...

He walked calmly down the hall, steadying his breathing and his posture along the way. He nodded to Noontime, who was casually monitoring the area, before turning into a wide room.

He was greeted by a scuffed floor dotted with the odd piece of furniture and four dusty walls ladened with chipped and failing paint. He was almost ashamed at having brought Anya to a place like this.

Yor sat aside the squirming girl, who was excitedly listing off what he suspected were attempts at dog names. Yor’s gaze flicked up to his as he stepped in, a terse smile following its path.

“Papa!” Anya exclaimed, hopping towards him from the patchy couch. 

He patted her head. “Are you enjoying your time, Anya?”

Her face pinched. “It’s kinda boring. But Anya’s trying to be pro-duck-tiff by coming up with doggy names!”

He gave her smile, eyeing the fluffy pooch wagging his tail behind her. “A fine gentleman deserves a fine name. What have you come up with?”

“Uh,” she held up her hand and began counting off her fingers. “Doggy. Pasty. Fluffy. Big guy. Cotton-ball. Spy-dog and…one more but Anya forgot!”

Hmm . 

He wasn’t quite sure what the fatherly thing would be to say, especially under the distinct weight of Yor’s scrutinizing gaze and Anya’s bright smile. “That’s a nice list of descriptive traits. But dogs understand simple words with distinct vowels, like A, O and U, the best. Why don’t you come up with some more.” He needed to get to talking with Yor, anyway.

She grimaced. “Spelling is gross…” Her gaze then flicked between her parents. “But Anya wants to go play with Mister Doggy over there.” She pointed to the opposite end of the long room before hopping away, shaggy canine following.

Well, that was strangely convenient.

He took another deep breath before facing Yor again. Despite witnessing what he would describe as a rather pleasant moment between fake father and daughter, Yor’s face was tense. He supposed there was relief to find in the fact that she was at least trying to hide it. 

“Can we talk, Yor?” He gestured to a set of plastic chairs framing a stolen outdoor cafe table. She rose and followed. Talking on the couch was too informal. Too domestic, considering the pseudo-divorce situation.

Once seated, Yor murmured, “I was half expecting an interrogation room.” 

Many of his fellow agents had as well, but that wasn’t exactly the diplomatic approach.

“Pleasant surprise?”

Yor ignored his weak attempt at a joke. “I was also expecting to meet your boss?”

“Oh, yes. She should be with us soon.”

Yor nodded. He noted her wringing hands before she moved them under the table.

Here we go.

“I was hoping to do some groundwork discussion about what our shared goals are with this meeting, to make sure we’re on the same page and to improve our collective understanding of one another.”

“That sounds…reasonable”

“To begin with, our first concern is Anya.” He took a breath. “I want to come to an agreement that will allow Anya to continue having a stable life. Hopefully…with both her parents.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re understandably suspicious of my motives. While I do have larger work related reasons for being in Berlint, Anya’s wellfare is still a major priority of mine. Which is why I want her to ultimately remain with her mother, regardless of what agreements we make here today.” Something unfamiliar twisted in his gut as he watched Yor’s face soften in surprised relief, full-well knowing their kindness was two-faced in nature. If Yor was unwilling to continue working with him, Operation Strix would likely be retired anyway.

“Even so, the ideal outcome would be us working together. I’m willing, but like I’ve mentioned previously, my organization is still very hesitant as we know very little about you. We're not certain if our values align.” 

While his heart-rate doubled in anticipation of what he was to say next, he softened his voice, attempting to soothe Yor’s clear unease.

“Personally, after having watched you with Anya these past two months and having been able to experience your kindness personally, I believe that while you may have a more…complicated line of work—assassin or mercenary work, I presume based on your skillset,” Yor eyes blew wide and she stiffened in her chair.

“Oh–W-What makes you think—”

“You likely work within some ethical boundaries. Targeting criminals, largely?” He continued. “ You don’t seem like the type to harm the innocent for financial gain.”  Twilight didn’t let her reaction slow his speech, maintaining his cool air of confidence. It was obvious to both parties that Yor was startlingly untrained in deception, which truly whittled down her potential career pool.  

“Um–I…Yes? But no—” Yor was  flustered, caught between wanting to deny and to confirm two conjoined statements without appearing contradictory.

It wasn’t a full proof—or even recommendable—method of intel confirmation, throwing out guesses and seeing how one’s…target reacted, but with Yor it seemed the easiest place to start. It also required that he quickly changed the subject before the significance of how much he’d just gauged from their conversation hit them. By Yor’s quickly hardening expression, it was clear he needed to do so fast.

Twilight let out a long sigh, wringing his wrists in an imitation of uncertainty. “Though I suppose I may be getting ahead of myself,” he laughed. “I’m throwing out big claims about you without having given you space to describe yourself or your situation.”

Yor’s eyes darted as she readied her answer. “You’re allowed your…assumptions about me, I suppose. I won’t confirm or deny anything. What matters most is what I've said; that my main priority is Anya’s welfare and ensuring a good future for her.”

He nodded, voice quieting. “And what do you imagine that’d look like?”

“I…” She bit her lip. “I’d prefer if Anya’s life stayed largely the same, as well. Meaning…that she continue at Eden, and come home to both her parents at the end of the day, like you said.” Yor’s eyes met his, something tentative and vulnerable flickering within him, as if asking him to make a promise.

His heart tripped. Their conversation was at least heading in the direction optimal to WISE’s goals. But this next hurdle would be the most challenging.

“....We’d— I’d like that too, very much. But to do that, we’d need to form a proper, official agreement. I know you’re not too comfortable with the idea, but it would require knowing who exactly we were making an alliance with.”

Yor closed her eyes and clenched the fist resting between them. That wasn't good.

"We’ve already made an agreement, months ago. One that’s suited us well so far. Can we not simply continue with how things were and keep our work separate?”

He stopped himself from reeling in his seat. How could they possibly go back to the way things were?

“No. Not for security and practicality’s sake. With you now aware of my identity and activities in Berlint, WISE will need assurance that information won’t be leaked any further or used against us. As I've said, we don’t know you, Yor, because we don’t know who you represent.”

Yor's brows furrowed, something close to anger rising on her face. “So, it’s a trust issue. Surely you can relate to my predicament then. I also don’t want my identity or organization exposed, especially since you’ve given me very little honesty to put my faith in thus far.”

Her words twisted something further in his chest. That was…completely fair. 

“Yor, I…” his hand twitched with the urge to reach across the table.

“And Anya,” her voice lowered as his heart leapt into his throat. “I’m still not sure how she’s involved in this. Why WISE—you—seem to be using a child.”

“You’re correct,” he began slowly. “Anya is a…necessary component of a mission I’m currently undertaking.” The words were bitter on his tongue. He visibly took a deep breath, calibrating the tone he was about to take. Something real found itself in his voice, unsteadying it a touch. It was shameful. The whole situation was shameful. 

“I carry out missions with the belief and hope that they’ll ultimately bring about more good than harm for everybody—preventing war—but it’s a great sin that it’s Anya—and you—that are paying the price in return.” He looked tentatively into Yor’s eyes. “I’m sorry, truly. I do care for both of your well beings and I’m hoping that whatever resolution that we arrive at today can bring about something good for both of your futures.”

Yor’s expression flickered through a series of unreadable before finally settling on something stony and tired.

“…Feel free to express any feelings or ask any questions you may have, if you’re comfortable.” He quietly offered.

“I just…” She crossed her arms and turned her head away. “Are you truly planning to leave Anya behind someday?”

He stiffened. They both knew the answer to that question, he’s sure. He could see it in the red of her eyes, simmering with accusation and dread.

“Yes.” It was a hard answer for him to hear as well.

Yor’s face hardened again. There was a curl of disgust at her lip and it stung something inside him he knew very much deserved it.

“Do you think it’ll bring about more good than harm for her, then?” She asked in a low voice, steady and quiet as a snake’s slither. “Do you think it’ll be worth it for her, even though she’ll lose her father at the end of it?”

He could look anywhere but Yor’s face, or to his right, where a pink haired little girl played with her dog.

“All missions inevitably end, and I’m called on to complete another, though it may pain me to do so.”

“That’s not an answer.”

His gut twisted further, as much as his supposed silver tongue. He had concepts of the correct words that he should say, yet some haphazard truth kept leaving his mouth.

“I know.” He grimaced, fists clenching. “But I need to do what I can for her future, for the future of countless children. The last thing I’d want for Anya is to grow up in a nation burdened by war.”

Yor’s voice was quiet as she asked again, “will having put her through all this really better for her in the end?”

His mind slowed at her words, reeling back through his memories. Past the iron gates he’d risen around his childhood he could recall the distinctly sour smell of rotting wood and blankets stained with unidentifiable bad reminders. It was a scent that plagued the orphanages he’d been in and out of growing up. Wartime orphanages were crowded and overflowing with grief and disease. He remembered watching bunkmates fighting for scraps of food scavenged from the streets, and older children—teenagers—being kicked out or sent to enlistment camps to free up beds. His mind can recall the distinct weight of deciding whether he should risk sickness at the hostels or the cold on the streets. 

And Anya? The orphanage he’d pulled her from was only a few levels better in quality than the ones he passed through as a child. If another war hit, he could only imagine what would have happened to her. The very thought of her having to spend a night in one of those hostels stole the breath from his lungs. 

“Absolutely.”

Yor blinked at him, and he realized then that his voice had likely been a tad heavy, closer to a wince.

He cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. “Every week—and during certain periods, even everyday—WISE is called upon to deescalate another political mishap, an extremist terrorist organization, or the rise to power of a war-monger in a respectable suit working to tip the scales of peace into violence. Our countries can’t afford any hesitation on our parts. Not until this cold war comes to an end.” 

He finally met Yor’s eyes, only to find them darkened and inscrutable. 

“I understand if you can’t accept my reasoning. I wouldn't, in your position. There are many unforgivable things I’ve done in my line of work. Hurting Anya in any way would be one of them. Protecting her future can only justify so much.” The words settled heavy in his chest as he spoke them. Yor appeared just as pained.

He was failing on all accounts. As Twilight and as Loid Forger. How much had he’d derived from this conversation? How much further had he simply pushed Yor—and therefore, Anya—away?

And if the sound of heels clacking against marble meant anything, he’d just run out of time to fix things.

He felt the gush of air of someone arriving behind him, then a tapping sensation atop his head. Yor’s eyes darted up and widened too.

“Go play with your daughter, agent.”

He turned to find an older, brunette version of his handler, staring them down with a pack of jumbo crayons and paper in hand. “These are for Anya, of course.”

Well, this is one way to be dismissed.

Having hardly made any headway with Yor, he supposed it was time for his mentor to take over. “Yes, handler.” 

He rose from his seat, trying to keep his movements steady and refined—the opposite to what he was feeling internally. He gave Yor one more look. A sense of shared weariness passed between them. “Yor, I would like you to meet my boss, uh—”

“Cecilia,” Handler finished for him with a smile. After dropping Anya’s new art supplies into his arms, she stuck out her hand for Yor to shake. His fake wife tentatively reciprocated.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Briar. I’ve heard—well, read—many good things about you. ” 

Dark brows rose. “Oh really?” Both women's gazes found him, one laced with mirth and the other with curiosity.

His face heated. “I’ll leave you two to talk now.”

Chapter Text

Apprehension only churned tighter in Yor’s gut as she watched Loid go. Though she didn’t really know him, she did know him and that offered some sense of safety. As her eyes scanned the woman in front of her, the realization that she was way in over her head only dawned harder on her and her nerves.

Cecilia presented herself just like any woman that could be plucked off a Berlint street. Her clothes were simple—a plain white blouse and skirt and besides the few typical out of place strands, her hair was neat, and her manner was congenial. But every movement and word of hers hinted at a deadly precision. And the looming fact that she was not only a spy, but her husband's superior made it obvious that while outwardly harmless she was a true threat.

What am I doing?

It went against every creed of her training, every staple by which she was raised, to allow herself to be known and vulnerable to individuals who suspected her identity and were dangerous in their own right. She could put the whole of Garden in danger. Yuri too!

Shopkeeper had always told her to never speak to law enforcement without a lawyer—that is, if it wasn't the SSS who arrested her. (They were more inclined to pull out pliers than a lawbook.) She was certain that had been for a good reason. And she was even more certain that these professionals were both more wily, analytical and manipulative than the average cop.

And Yor could admit that, she didn’t have the most guile herself. Yuri’s fears that she couldn’t pick a good man by her own judgement had proven disastrously founded.

This was not her playing field.

And she was sure Loid and Cecilia were aware of that too.

The brunette settled cross-legged in her chair, serene in form and expression. Instead of looking to Yor, she watched Anya and Loid from afar. Yor followed her gaze.

The assassin observed Anya’s small face and steady smile. It occurred to her then just how precariously Anya's happiness now existed. For all the strength and ingenutity she knew Anya had, all Yor could see was how small she was. How vulnerable.

She believed in her father. And she believed in their little makeshift family, desperate for it not to fall apart.

Yor wanted to try for her, to find what Anya saw in Loid so neither of their hearts would break. But even with all of Loid’s sweet words and paternal, affectionate looks, she carried a rock of faithless doubt heavy in her chest. He could sincerely bestow all kinds of niceties and promises to protect the girl's future, but how much was his word worth?

It was likely he cared, but he'd already made it clear that he'd choose his mission and protecting their countries over being Anya’s father. And she understood, to an extent, being someone who also played the heavy game of sacrifice and blood exchange for the sake of her nation. 

So she’d lied to Loid about how they knew his identity. And though that’d felt right to her at the time, guilt still wrung her gut. Anya had eagarly went along with their deception, but Yor knew it had been out of fear and a deepset insecurity regarding her telepathy. Anya’s tearfully stuttered question if Yor no longer wanted her as a daughter after her powers were revealed was haunting. Had lying to Loid reinforced Anya’s fear that her telepathy was something she should keep hidden. Something her father would abandon her for? It was a horrible thought.

She was in a unwinning position. It was clear how much danger Anya was in, and equally clear that Yor was the only one she could trust with any certainty to protect her. 

What would a telepath be to an intellignece agency?  The key to every secret, intention and scheme they could ever want to pluck from someone's mind.

Their greatest tool and weapon.

Anya was likely right about Loid’s harboring good intention, but when he, or his agency, was confronted was such an astouding treasure, how would they react? What would Loid chose? 

Despite her telepathy, Anya was still a little girl with big dreams for the world. It was her responsibilty as her mother to protect her.

Yor could not afford to be naive, and Anya could afford it even less so.

The quiet began to itch at her.

She knew this woman was here for information, so what was with this silence? Some sort of mind-boggling interrogation technique? She had no understanding of espionage, interrogation and like.

Cecilia continued to observe the scene, softening at Anya’s excited face. The girl waved her hands, one fist tightly clutching a giant black crayon, as she exclaimed something to her father. A tad begrudgingly, Loid pulled the dog into his arms as Anya began to sketch, as if he were posing for a picture. She looked so happy, despite it all.

“He’s really good with her, isn’t it?” Cecilia mused.

Yor’s twitched, a hint of suspicion tingling in her mind. She thought for a moment anyway.

“For the most part, yes.” 

Cecilia’s bejeweled fingers came to hold her chin, framing a wry smile. “Do you know that he once spent an entire mission briefing bragging about her improvements with the jump rope?”

Something twinged in her chest. Loid had been proud, but… Her eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

Sharp eyes found her own, standing out against a pallidly curious expression. “I’m simply saying that he’s good to have around—as a father. And I’m assuming that’s one of the reasons for this meeting. We all would like it if the Forgers stayed together.”

 “I...suppose so.”

She clasped her hands together. “Great. Then what’s the delay?”

Yor tensed as dark eyes honed in on her.

“We’re on the verge of an alliance but were still waiting for you to formally introduce yourself and who you represent.”

A defensive feeling wound its way around Yor’s chest. “Forgive me if that’s information I’m not willing to divulge so readily. As I’ve told Loid, I’m happy to continue as Anya’s mother with the promise that we stay out of each other’s work.”

Cecilia crossed her arms. “So, I assume your employers aren’t the type to care if you neglect to disclose that you’re living with a Westalian spy and indirectly aiding in his covert operation.”

Her jaw clenched.

Of course not.

She hadn’t quite planned that far, but it was a given that this kind of secret wouldn’t be tolerated by Shopkeeper. It was the kind of secret she was just as scared to keep as to share.

Cecilia nodded as if Yor had answered, and maybe she had with her silence.

“A partnership is a two-way street.The fact that you entertained this meeting at all suggests to me you are willing to put a little faith in us—or Loid, at least. After all, building a life together, real or not, does require a great deal of collaboration, and that requires a modicum of trust.”

Yor’s gaze dropped to her hands, clenched in her lap.

She wasn’t exactly wrong, but not exactly right either. 

In truth, she wasn’t sure what she felt.

She was at a crossroads, completely unprepared to make a choice, feet unwilling to take another step forward. The potential consequences of choosing wrong were too dire. It'd be on her if Anya ended up hurt and at this point it seemed to be an inescapable fate.

And she could see in Cecilia's eyes that she knew Yor’s heart was unsteady. Past her casual expression, her gaze was as cold as iron and completely still. That of a bird of prey waiting for a tired animal to keel over and give in. 

At the hint of challenge, Thorn Princess instinctively hummed to life beneath the surface of her skin. 

“How much longer do you need to decide?” Cecilia asked in a low and slow tone.

Yor’s eyes narrowed further, reflecting the woman's unflinching gaze. The air around them seemed to fall still. “Have you run out of reasons to convince me with, then?” Regardless of the fact that she’d need to reveal the situation to Shopkeeper, she was yet obliged to reveal herself to WISE.

After a long moment, Cecilia let out a clipped laugh. It broke the tension like the snap of ice over a pond. Yor almost jumped in her seat.  

When she quieted, Cecilia’s gaze again found Anya and Loid—engaged in some sort of deep discussion about drawing or dog names most likely. Yor took the moment to study her, looking for any small entrance in the woman’s thoughts. She only found a bittersweet emotion at the edge of her crinkled eyes, reflecting something akin to Yor’s own feelings about the scene.

Something mournful, a touch affectionate, but determined. 

Something almost...

Yor’s mind slowed at the thought, before the quiet was broken by a long sigh.

“Your husband…is the best we have, not only for his perfectionistic tendencies but his good character.”

Yor blinked at the sudden change of topic.

Loid is the most skilled operative amongst his agency? 

Her memory flickered back his earlier claims, and her brows furrowed. She supposed that being the best came with a great deal of responsibility. One of the first things she noted about Loid was just how much he invested in and managed every element and outcome of his work, household and child's life. She'd admired it. And she can't imagine that any part of his life was spared from that intensity. 

“Truth be told, we were very shocked that Loid had somehow missed that you were in a… similar line of work. But now that I've considered it further, it’s likely his read on you wasn’t inaccurate, just incomplete.” 

Yor cocked her head.

“As an intelligence agency, our life’s work is information—collecting verifiable and world-altering fact. But in the field, when the variables start to change, bullets are whizzing by and the clock is counting down…we have to use our instincts, listen to our guts to succeed, more than we may like to admit…”

Grey eyes meet red, bearing into her questioningly. Yor’s breathing stilled.

“I’m sure you’ve met many bad people in your life, and I bet your gut had told you he wasn’t one of them. Just like his did with you.” 

Yor’s eyes widened.

It was…

True.

Yor had always felt comfortable with Loid, a feeling she rarely experienced with anyone. 

It summoned a warm but awkward feeling to her chest to realise that, though spies don't trust so easily…it seemed Loid had with her.

Even after their second meeting ended with a knife fight and proposal by grenade pin. 

Normal civilians don’t casually engage in mortal combat…do they?

How had they not been suspicious of one another from the start?

(Especially the supposed spy!)

Yor chewed her lip and discreetly eyed Cecilia. By the glint in her gaze, it was clear she knew she'd gotten through to her target.

Yor clenched her fists, unused to the creeping of defeat. 

But was this really a battle? One worth fighting to the end? Her eyes again found Anya.

She could feel Cecilia observing her, and hear the padding of footsteps as someone approached—the older spy.

He uttered a small ‘excuse me’ before leaning down and whispering something hurriedly into Cecilia's ear. Her face remained stoic and unchanged, but she nodded and rose.

This couldn’t be good. What if they were hearing word from their superiors? What if they were ordering the shut down of any deals before one could even be shaked on?

Yor really didn’t want to fight her way out of here with a dog and child under each arm.

She scolded herself for not making a decision sooner. This was just like her. 

Cecilia gave her a polite smile as Yor held back a nervous jitter. “I’ve enjoyed our discussion. Let’s continue this later.” She turned in Loid’s direction. “Agent.” 

Loid looked up and rose as if he’d received a full briefing of orders merely through eye-contact. These spies were truly in-sync. He patted Anya on the head. “Keep drawing. I'll be back soon.”

Anya saluted then returned to furiously scribbling on her paper.

Loid gave Yor a nod of acknowledgement as he passed, expressionless besides the flick of his jaw. Yor wearily watched the trio exit, certain that though they were no longer in the room they'd still be observing her somehow.

When they were finally out of sight, she slumped back into her seat and tried not to let the weight of the situation crush her. 

What am I going to do?

Whatever it was, she had to decide before they returned, if it even mattered at all. They could be discussing anything that would give this attempt at a diplomatic conference a bad ending.

Should she just grab Anya and the dog and sneak out? It'd be easy, really, for someone like her. 

She slapped her cheeks.

No, Yor!

What an embarrassing thought. She wasn't the type to run from a problem and how could it truly help? Essentially kidnapping Anya from her life and going on the run!

Her face sunk further into her hands.

She was failing as a mother.

“Mama, no.” Her head swiftly turned to find Anya, standing with a frown on her face, drawing clutched in one hand.

She instantly deflated. She'd forgotten about Anya's telepathy for a moment and allowed herself to have a thought she'd never want her to hear. Shame only settled harder over her. 

The girl padded forward and wrapped her arms around her mother's waist. Yor brushed the child's bangs from her face. “I'm sorry, Anya, I—” she bit her tongue, remembering why she shouldn't speak so freely in a spy's hideout. Green eyes flicked to hers, sharing in her understanding. “Thank you.”

She continued in her mind. Thank you for being such a sweet girl. I'm sorry you had to hear that. Yor stilled, trying not to think back to the multiple hits she completed this month. Risking Anya's innocence further by catastrophizing would be the opposite of helpful.

I'll be kinder to myself, she finally said. 

It shouldn't be Anya's responsibility to manage the insecurities, fears and problems of the adults she was supposed to count on. 

“But Anya likes to help, Mama,” the girl whispered, cute little scowl on her face.

Yor squeaked. Thinking without words—or not thinking at all was a skill she would have to quickly master. 

“Anya's helped a lot. Like a lot a lot!”

“I—” Yor shook her head. Anya, you're a very brave girl but it can be very dangerous…and it's not your responsibility.

The girl frowned further and Yor cupped her cheek. I'm very thankful for everything, and while I know how brave and clever you are…a mother has to protect her daughter. Anya's brow furrowed. You're not alone anymore. If something worries you, if you overhear something frightening, you can tell me, just like you did today.

She pulled the girl up into lap. Not all of my childhood was…happy and worry-free. And that's not what I want for you. You deserve a peaceful life, Anya, so let me handle my struggles and help carry yours. Have faith in me to protect us.

After a moment, little arms wrapped themselves around her neck. “...Okie, Mama.” Yor wasn't convinced Anya was being wholly honest, but she hugged her back regardless, careful of her strength.

“So, what have you been working on all this time?” 

“Oh.” Anya pulled back and unrumpled her paper.

Revealed to the light was four stick figures, hastily scribbled in black crayon, dotted with smudges of colour. 

Cradling a pink splotch and a white blob were two tall forms, green and red, that loomed together over the smaller figure like a pair of protective great oaks. Yor's heart twisted in her chest and her eyes began to sting.

"This is so beautiful, Anya."

The girl beamed wide. "Really? Anya has more!" She hopped away to dig through a scattering of paper the dog was sitting on.

Yor looked back down at the drawing, clutching it tightly in hand.

Her daughter had so much faith in her and Loid. In herself, really.

Yor wanted to as well. Desperately.

Though often made in desperation, so much of her life had been a leap of faith. An act of believing in herself enough to brave a battlefield. From taking Yuri on as her own, joining Garden, moving to Berlint, and even marrying Loid…

Though those choices had led her down paths of tribulation, she couldn’t regret them.

She wanted to give her daughter the dream she depicted in this drawing.

But how could she let Loid into Anya's life knowing that he'd someday leave and break her heart?

What mother would lead her child down a path she knows will end in pain?

How could Loid so easily read Anya Spy Wars at bedtime, brush her hair, mix her cereal, take her to school and discuss her favourites shows with her everyday knowing how it would end? Did he even have a heart?

Yor sniffed and shook her head. 

No, as hurtful and angering it was to watch him confess his sins, and as much she hated to acknowledge it in the moment...there had been a sincere guilt and pain vibrating behind every word he spoke, not as hidden as he likely thought. Every soft word or gesture directed towards Anya had been carried out with gentle care.

Maybe it was all a lie, an act constructed by a professional manipulator, but her heart couldn't see it that way. She doubted that leaving would be as straightforward for the spy as he might want to believe.

Then it hit her.

It was clear, despite her husband's assurance that Anya would stay with her no matter what, WISE desperately needed Loid to maintain his facade as a family man. 

And Yor had the power to threaten that. To leverage it as part of their agreement.

If Loid wanted continue as Anya's father, he would have to make it a permanent committment.

Of course, he would have other operations to undertake eventually, but if WISE was successfully managing during their best spy's lengthy mission as a husband and father, surely they could figure out a way to do so continuously. Especially now that they no longer needed to be concerned with excusing or reducing any work-related absences as to not garner her suspicion. 

Ensuring a man held up his parental duties through a bargain may not be the most emotionally safe maneuver, but putting a little faith in Anya's love, her own heart's instinct and Loid himself, she felt certain that he could embrace the role with full sincerity, even unknowingly.

Maybe what he needed was permission to stay. 

(She could only hope attempting to pseudo-blackmail an intelligence agency wouldn't backfire on her. Regardless of the outcome, Thorn Princess would always be there to protect her child.)

As Anya padded back to her, Yor tenderly held their family potrait up to the light. “We should hang this on the fridge!”

--meanwhile--

Twilight gave his fake family one last glance before passing into the hall. He flexed his hands and stretched his shoulders, but that pervasive sense of unsteadiness was still yet to leave him. Maybe it was time to give up on maintaining perfect composure. He sighed deeply, as if he could exhale the fumes of his failure and it's burn from his body. 

“Did you see that stare-down they had early?” Noontime whispered to him as they followed their Handler to her office. “I got chills.”

Twilight grunted in acknowledgedment and offered no further comment. 

Sylvia indeed cut a very intimidating figure. He would feel a tingling of pride that Yor had held her own so well if it weren't completely inappropriate in light of the situation. Yor’s figurative 'balls of steel’ didn't make her a desirable potential enemy. 

Sylvia had already taken the phone from a nervous looking rookie before they entered the room. The sat and watched as Syvlia received the report, nodding along with the same effect as she always did; stoic.

“Any luck?” Noontime joked. Sylvia waved him off. The patient silence continued for half a minute. 

Until something changed. 

Sylvia's jaw clenched, and her grip tightened around the phone. Her gaze steeled as her face whitened.

His stomach dropped.

Sylvia's anger largely came in two shades. A cold, hard, unforgiving steel. Or a swift, snappish storm that soon settles into just another muggy day.

This was something else. A rare third.

The kind of anger that rose from fear.

Chapter Text

Sylvia’s eyes burned into Twilight’s as they waited for Noontime to return from discreetly dismissing all the junior agents on the premises. Half her face was obscured, resting behind her folded hands.

The silence of the room was loud, the gallop of his heart even more so.

While she hadn’t explained why sending away seven out of the twelve operatives staffing their current location was necessary, one could assume the reason wasn’t pleasant. Whatever information she received in that report about Yor must have gone beyond their expectations.

Minutes later, Noontime finally arrived and fell back into his seat, that startled look still on his face. “So, uh, is there a reason I had to kick the lot of them out, Handler?”

Cold eyes narrowed, matching an equally somber voice. “If a fight were to break out between us and Yor Briar today, it’d be like throwing guppies at a shark.” 

A chill ran through him. It really shouldn’t be a surprise a woman of Yor’s strength would be so…formidable in whatever blood-soaked work she engaged in. 

Noontime leaned past his seat to quickly lock the door behind him.

Sylvia sighed at that. “Her room is bugged and Eventide is keeping watch. He’ll notify us through his pager if she makes a move.”

“Not if she kills him first.”

“She wouldn’t do that in front of Anya,” Twilight argued, then shut his mouth. He doubted his claim would be found convincing.

Sylvia eyed the both of them. “I agree with Twilight.”

The older man rubbed the back of his neck and let out a shaky sigh. “Well then, I apologize. It’s just rare to see you so….”

Twilight was breathless as he witnessed Noontime barely stop himself from careening over a cliff edge. 

“...concerned,” the man wisely finished.

It was clear that their handler, not one to miss even the most innocuous details, was aware of Noontime’s almost blunder, but chose to spare him for now. She had bigger fish to fry.

“I am,” she said. To hear it admitted aloud was almost startling. “Twilight here has been playing house with no ordinary gun for hire.” A wry smirk found its way to her face. “Not that she uses firearms. Mrs. Forger prefers blades.”

Blades?   It was unusual choice when firearms existed. He imagined it for a moment. Yor’s powerful hands wrapped around a dagger. Unsettling yet…fitting for her, he supposed. 

“Have either of you heard of Garden?”

He jerked up in his seat. Noontime gave them a questioning look.

Franky had harped on about Garden a few times, scared out of his mind—and occasionally drunk too—after a suspected close call with a shadowy stalker. The only bit of consoling he could do for the man was to remind him that if a Garden assassin—supposedly equal in strength to that of a cavalry by his own description—had actually been after him, he’d already be dead.

But a lone assassin being equal in might to that of a whole army? It was an utterly cartoonish—

The memory of Yor launching a man twenty feet into a wall quickly passed through his mind.

Oh God. His stomach dropped to his feet.

“So you have heard of them, Twilight?”

“Y-Yes,” he cleared his throat. “Franky has spoken of Garden. But most of the stories about them seem fictious—close to ludicrous. He claims that a single one of their soldiers is capable of taking out a whole military troop.”

Sylvia leaned back in her seat and pinched her brow. “Well, it’s not so unfathomable a belief. I assume you both know of that recent hit on a Red Circus base?”

“...That was her?”

Nine heavily armed and dangerous terrorists, slain. By blade no less.

He’d asked Yor to bring home milk and eggs that evening hadn’t he? And that utterly confusing date of theirs had been the day after.

He tried to imagine it. Yor killing nine men, then buying their groceries. 

“You really know how to pick them,” Noontime sighed. “We should really go for a drink tonight. That is, if you survive this marital spat.”

Ignoring the man’s comment, Twilight murmured, “Franky has also claimed that they work under orders from a shadow government.” The implications were pretty dire if that were the case—and nothing close to what Yor had suggested about the compatibility of their agencies.

“Now that may be straying into the conspiratorial,” Sylvia said. “So far, they’ve seemed to be described more as an independent business of sorts. Of course, we can’t know for certain just yet.”

“It’d be our luck if that were the case. We could just buy them off,” Noontime commented.

A sour feeling grew in Twilight’s chest. “That is, if their monetary interests aren’t overshadowed by nationalistic or anti-Westalian sentiments.”

Sylvia’s face darkened. “Or, if we can’t outbid the SSS for the rights to our identities.” The room chilled. “It’s highly unlikely the SSS hasn't been a client of theirs one time or the other. Garden may turn to them instead and offer us up on a silver platter as a show of allyship. Yuri Briar is in the SSS as well, though according to Twilight neither sibling is aware of the other’s identity.”

A tense quiet descended as they processed the possibility.

“Damn,” Noontime said. “And we just received another budget cut last month.”

A shared, startled laugh rang out. Sad as it was.

It was amazing how much could fall apart in one day. With one exposed secret.

“Well,” Twilight began, “nothing is for certain yet. If we build our case, leverage Yor’s opinion of us and our use as an ally, we may have more bargaining power than we know."

“And we’re sure as hell more charming than those SS bastards,” Noontime laughed.

A small smile grew on Sylvia’s face as she nodded. “A high risk, high reward target. Our usual.” And just as quickly, her gaze hardened. “And if it really does come down to a fight, we do have the nuclear option.”

Twilight’s gut twisted, predicting where she was going.

“Based on the report I received from a survivor of one of her hits ,amongst many other informants we have stationed in Ostania’s underworld, Yor Briar is likely one of Garden’s most skilled operatives. Her alter ego is greatly feared. Her work likely contributes a significant amount to Garden’s reputation. If her identity were to be exposed…”

Her life—and her brother’s and daughter’s lives—would be ruined, was the first thought that came to Twilight’s mind. The second was a scolding, followed by a logical dissection of Sylvia's suggestion that left him feeling hollow. 

“Part of Garden’s operations could be exposed by tracing her lifetime movements…” He answered quietly. “And they’d be losing a significant contributor to their workforce and reputation, as well as a valuable level of secrecy organizations require to maintain trust and security in their line of work.”

“Of course, we don't have to threaten that outright," Noontime said. "But the implication is there. For both sides. If either of us acted against each other it would be…”

“Mutually assured destruction,” Sylvia finished, tone somber.

“Hardly a win,” Twilight added. “Hardly an equal loss either.”

“Damn,” Noontime said again. “No rest for the wicked.”

Sylvia rapped her fingers atop her desk and sighed. “That’s enough catastrophizing for now. Remember, being a particularly dangerous organization doesn’t mean they’re more likely to be an enemy. It just makes the consequences far more dire if this goes south.”

“That’s hardly a reassurance,” the man countered. Twilight couldn’t help but agree.

She waved him off. “Go switch places with Eventide.”

“What?” He squawked rising from his seat. “We haven’t been briefed on our next move.”

“I’ll be discussing that with Twilight here, and I want Eventide to come in so I can give him a recap. But give us a few minutes before having him arrive.”

Noontime sighed, "aye, aye, Handler," then hurried off, out the door. Twilight made sure to lock it behind him. He could feel Sylvia’s scrutinizing gaze bearing down on the back of his head.

He turned to lean back against the door, arms crossed. “Yes, Handler?”

“We still have quite a ways to go when it comes to what we know about Yor Briar and her employers.”

“Indeed…Do you suppose that now that we can put a name to both, she will be more willing to divulge other details?”

“It’s possible, and worth a try,” she replied, the air of dismissal in her tone. “I’m going to put out a warning to HQ to be prepared in the meantime.”

He nodded and moved, reaching for the door-handle, but something gave him pause.

“What is it, agent?”

He turned his head, voice sober. “Was there any other information detailed in that report that you haven’t shared, Handler?”

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed and eyes sharp. “Well, there was a great deal of gore described to me in unpleasantly specific detail.”

Twilight frowned and Sylvia gave him a knowing look.

“You want to know more about her alter ego then, don’t you?” She swapped the teasing edge of her tone for something more severe. “From what I gather of her reported hits, she largely targets violent criminals and powerful figures accused of corruption. She drops upwards of five to ten bodies during each assignment. It seems she’s been in this line of work for quite some time. I’ve sent out a cross-check analysis of any other known assassination done with her very specific blade type.”

Twilight nodded, trying to steady himself as his mind attempted to picture this other version of this woman he’d come to know—or think he knew.

“Struggling to find the killer in that bashful woman, are you? Haven’t I taught you not to be fooled by appearances?” She scolded gently.

“I know.” He clenched his jaw. “This is just…an adjustment. Yor, as the woman—as the mother and sister I’ve gotten to know and understand…” He’d been slowly trying to process this new side of Yor all day, but now that it was confirmed, he felt lost as to how to understand her at all.

Sylvia gave him a critical look. “We both know very well what can hide under charm and beauty.”

He swallowed. Of course. He’s sure Yor was as equally surprised to learn of his true identity.

“People can be complicated and layered,” Sylvia began slowly. “Life can force us to grow or change in unexpected ways to survive. To take on other sides of ourselves. Though admittingly…Yor Briar is quite unique.”

He tried to picture Yor again. Sweet, strong, protective Yor. 

An ingrained or learned coldness was required to kill without hesitation. His work made demands of him just as brutal, deadly and cruel, and wouldn’t carry them out so readily without the belief it’d bring about more good than harm. And maybe that was the same for Yor. Maybe she did what she did for her family. For her country. The more he thought of it, the more fitting it seemed. While h is life and work had hardened him into something cold and hard, Yor carried a soft, warmth to her he couldn’t help but admire. How she nurtured a kindness—an exploitable kindness—under a torrent of blood, he couldn’t imagine.

“A unique type of blade, you said?”

Sylvia lifted a brow. “Long, thin and deadly sharp. Akin to a needle. Fitting for the Thorn Princess, I suppose.”

He stepped back, eyes wide. “Thorn Princess? Is that her name?” 

She nodded. “I suppose a Garden of their nature would prize their thorns.”

His brows furrowed.

The name Thorn Princess originated from a classic fairy tale starring a protagonist of the same moniker: a young royal who falls into eternal slumber after pricking her finger upon a cursed spindle. An eerie enough story, but still a puzzling choice of name for contract killer. It didn't quite conjure an intimidating image, but he supposed Yor's work spoke for itself.

“Yes,” he said absent-mindedly, “I suppose they would.”

…

He felt heavy as he traversed the echoing white hall, weighed down by cautious fear and answers that only brought about more questions. As he turned into the room where Yor and Anya waited, a tense Noontime gave him a small nod that seemed to wish him ‘good luck.’

When he found Yor and Anya’s surprisingly happy figures, he expected to feel that contentment that typically sparked in him at their sight. Instead, he was reminded again of what they all stood to lose.

Yor nodded to him as Anya scrambled out of her lap. “Hello, Loid.”

“Hi, Papa!” He patted the girl’s head.

“I hope it hasn’t gotten too boring in here for you?”

Anya shook her head, sending her pink locks flying. “No, Anya and Mama have been having fun drawing!” She scurried to Yor’s table and brought back a few wrinkled papers. She proudly raised them over her head so he could see. “Mama says they’re going on the fridge!”

He smiled, inspecting them. “Of course they are.” On one page, a pink and black triangle rode a fluffy mass. On the other, a stick figure family huddled together, dog included. He couldn’t help but notice how tightly the parents held onto the child, like they were holding their whole world. His chest twinged. “These are very well done, Anya.”

The girl slowly lowered her drawings, something akin to seriousness now on her cherub face. “You probably want to talk to Mama now, right?”

It was almost startling how intuitive children could be.

“Ah,” he looked to Yor then back. “Your mother and I do have a few more things to discuss before…before we can go home for the day,” he said tentatively, still uncertain how things would unfold. Yor didn’t correct him. “But thank you for sharing your artwork with me.”

Anya grinned up at him. “Anya will go draw more while Mama and Papa talk.” The girl then hopped away.

He looked to Yor again, who gestured for him to join her at the table.

Just as he sat down, Yor asked, “what was that interruption about?” He gaped, and red rushed to her face as she seemed to recognize the bluntness of her question. But she gave no apology.

Was she disgruntled that he left in the middle of a serious discussion? Or was she suspicious about whatever he'd decided or done in his absence?

“My colleagues and I were merely taking a phone call. I’m sorry for the interruption.”

She nodded slowly, curiosity and distrust still in her eyes.

“We…” He began tentatively, knowing full well what he had to do and that it would not garner a positive response. “We received information about your identity and your organization. We know everything.”

Yor stiffened in her seat. Her eyes blew wide, then narrowed in anger. The hair on the back of his neck rose. “How? Who—?”

“We have many informants and information sources throughout the underworld," he quickly answered. "As an intelligence organization, this type of information is not hard to come by. It’s the heart of our trade and what we’ve dedicated our lives to.”

A panicked look rose to her face. “B-But Loid, if people can find out my identity so easily that means that Anya—Yuri, my colleagues could be put in danger!”

He shook his head. “Please don't fret. We paid off our informants so they’d keep the information to themselves. Besides, the underworld is comprised of secrets, held together largely by honor and fear. From what I know of your reputation, I doubt there are many who’d risk making an enemy of you or your agency.” Not that that was a full-proof security measure.

Yor seemed to relax at that, but a frown soon grew on her face. “What specifically do you know about us,” she asked softly.

Pretend you know more than you do, he reminded himself, like he was a rookie again. Read her body language for confirmation or denial. 

“We know that Garden commercially operates like a business that takes commission from multiple clients. As part of your ideology, you largely target criminals, the Red Circus a few weeks ago being an example. You, specifically, seem to take on assignments that involve multiple targets, but Garden operatives overall execute a range of assassinations in various ways. We also know that the Secret Police has hired you on more than one occasion, amongst others organizations, criminal and otherwise.”

Her brows furrowed at that. “The Secret Police? Really?”

“Yes. I suppose you’re not privy to the identities of those who pay for your services.”

Unease tensed her posture. It was understandably unnerving to learn that you’ve been unknowingly collaborating with a group you feared. Of course, WISE had no concrete proof that the SSS and Garden had interacted at all, but the fact that Yor could neither confirm or deny it suggested she was generally unaware of who had been hiring her. About what else did Garden keep from its operatives?

"I let you in on a secret; we're not fond of the Secret Police either, and the feeling is mutual," he laughed. “We’re fortunate that Garden doesn’t seem to share their sentiments about the West." 

Yor gave him an amused smile. "They really aren't the most agreeable or even...tactful law division."

He chuckled at that.

Yor's affirmative response was a relieving indication that Garden wasn't anti-Westalian, sure, but he couldn’t be certain that Yor was fully aware of her agency’s protocols and ideology to begin with. And even if Garden were comfortable with Westalis, that doesn't necessary extend to its spies.

But at this point, what other option besides the diplomatic approach did they have? They would not win in a fight, and fleeing the city would mean the same undesirable outcome for Operation Strix. At least he'd be able to continue missions elsewhere, but never with his true face. Diplomacy, unfortunately, was both the riskiest and only rewarding route they could take.

“If it’s possible, we’d like to have a meeting with your employers to discuss a potential alliance or neutrality agreement. Would you be able to organize something like that?”

Yor crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, face drawn.

Dammnit. He still hadn’t built up enough trust it seemed.

“I won’t agree to any long-term, personal collaboration…without a promise from you first.”

He perked up, surprised. “Anything, Yor.”

Anything, as long as it could exist within the demands of his mission.

Yor steeled, taking on a determined and unmovable air. In that moment, he could see the assassin bleeding through in her burning, scarlet gaze. And h e had a feeling, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her.