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There was so much washing up. How was there always so much washing up for just two people? It was worse than there were three of them with three meals per day.
Maybe it was just that she minded more now.
The three pots, two plates, a handful of utensils. Just one dinner. It might as well have been a mountain.
Yor’s hands were reddened from the blistering heat of the sudsy water. The skin around her cuticles was cracked, the callouses scattered around the skin of her palms raised and angry. She scrubbed and scrubbed at the baked-on debris that refused to budge as she threw entirely too much of her strength into scouring the dishes.
“Mama?”
It was ridiculous, the way that she still couldn’t cook and seemed to have lost the ability to clean. Regressing. Useless.
“Mama.”
Too soft (‘emotionally compromised’ was how Shopkeeper had phrased it) to keep working in the Garden, unable to care for Anya the way that she needed, now useless around the house, too.
“Mama!”
Yor looked up to see Anya standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a partially crumpled piece of paper in her hand.
“Oh. I’m sorry, Anya. What is it?”
“It’s broken. You’re gonna hurt your hand.”
Sure enough, Yor looked down with eyes more focused to find the ceramic pan cracked, split into two pieces, with one half sunken into the soapy sink.
“Oh…oh. I’m sorry.”
It was just one of those days. She hadn’t slept but a few hours the previous night, then her pantyhose caught a run that morning and made her late because she couldn’t find her spare pair. Her coffee spilled over the stack of documents that she had spent three hours typing up, effectively setting her back nearly an entire day’s work. She had burned dinner, too, resulting in the current predicament of food residue that she couldn’t seem to wash off. Now she ruined the pan.
Despite her very best efforts, tears flooded her vision. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, only to rub soap into them by accident. She wanted to hit her head on the wall.
“It’s okay, Mama. It’s just a thing.”
They’re just things. What Loid used to tell her when she broke things by accident, when her strength got away from her. He would smile, hold a hand on her cheek to wipe away any stray tears, and reassure her that they didn’t own anything that couldn’t be replaced. He would praise her for her strength, grace her lips with a little kiss (a chaste one- they never knew when Anya was sneaking about), and pencil in a shopping trip onto their to-do list.
They’re just things. They can be replaced.
But not everything was replaceable.
Yor sniffed, took a deep sigh then let it out. Put on her best neutral-positive face.
“You’re right, sweetheart. Thank you. What’ve you got there?” she nodded towards the paper in her daughter’s hands.
“It’s just a drawing I made in art class today… it isn’t very good.” The girl’s eyes dropped from the paper in her hand to a spot on the tiled floor. “I wasn’t going to show you, but.” She extended the paper towards Yor. “Don’t gotta keep it. I only had to draw to get a grade and then they made us take it home.”
Yor dried her hands off on a towel and crouched to get a better look at the drawing. Once the paper had changed hands, Anya retreated to her room without waiting for a response. The nameplate on her door rattled ever so slightly from the force she used to close it.
The drying of her hands proved moot, though, as those tears finally leaked down her cheeks and onto the paper. She wiped her face on the lower half of her apron, transfixed on what was in front of her.
It was one of those pre-labeled prompt papers with the title in big, bold letters atop the page. In blocky print, it read, ‘My Family’. In the privacy of her own thoughts, she could admit that the image was a little hard to make out, but it was absolutely clear what had been depicted. A red blob with a head of long, black hair representing herself standing hand-in-hand with a pink-haired blob of black and gold standing beside her. But on the other side- beneath the empty hand of the little girl- was a pile of colors (flowers?) and a gray oval sprouting from the ground.
A cold kind of squeezing sensation gripped her the longer she looked at it. The kind that usually comes after a cry- the childish kind, the deep and guttural bawling that wracks the body and leaves you wrung out after. She was so very tired of crying.
A moment to compose herself, stifling the jagged breaths with a hand over her mouth, and then she rose and tacked the paper to the refrigerator with a magnet. Right next to the first one Anya had brought home to put up- the one depicting both parents, a smiling daughter, and a white blob of fur.
Yor turned back to the dishes in the dark kitchen. The water had gone cold.
The afternoon was irritatingly pleasant. Summer's peak had given way to cool, sunny days and chilly evenings. There were leaves piled up in the gutters, along the edges of the roads and the parks. Anya jumped about as they walked. Yor held her hand to steady her just in case, watching as the little girl hopped from dead leaf to dead leaf. Each audible ‘crunch’ was met with a victorious chuckle. Yor couldn’t help but smile.
“What should we have for dinner tonight?” Yor asked while internally hoping for as simple a dish as Anya could think of.
“Hmmm…takeout. Peanut chicken,” Anya replied to her mother’s relief. Her hat was slipping down her head from the force of her jumping. Her tongue sticking out as she concentrated, her brows furrowed down over narrowed eyes.
How did she manage to look so much like-
“Let’s go pick it up.” As they rerouted their course towards the restaurant, Yor tightened her grip on Anya’s hand and (gently) slung her around the corner with her own momentum the next time she jumped. Her laugh was like sunlight.
Bond was waiting for them when they came through the door with dinner. He eagerly sought out Anya’s attention and was appeased only after no less than three minutes of pats and scratches. While Anya was preoccupied, Yor went about her afternoon homecoming routine. After setting the bags down in the kitchen, she went room by room to check each door, window, and the various cache spots for her weapons. While Anya’s room was just as secure as it always had been, hers was not. As she stepped closer to the window, it was apparent that the lock had been moved- stuck halfway between open and closed.
“Mama! My tummy is eating itself!” came called from down the hallway.
“Just a minute, I’ll be right there!” A drag of her finger along the windowsill came away with a thin layer of dirt. Sloppy. Other than that, all was as it should have been as Yor went through the search of her room twice. Nothing left, nothing missing, nothing moved. All she could do was continue her evening.
“Can you read me…one more story, Mama,” Anya slurred, words muffled coming from behind Mr. Chimera.
“You can’t even keep your eyes open, Peanut,” Yor answered with a little laugh.
“…can too,” was even quieter, and her eyes were firmly closed.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart. It’s a weekend tomorrow, so you can sleep in. I’ll have pancakes ready for you when you wake up.” She kept her voice soft and melodic. By the time she finished speaking, Anya was already snoring. Yor left a kiss on her cheek, flicked her lamp off and nightlight on, and left her door cracked on her way out.
She did one last check of the locks in the house, and retired to her own room.
“You’ve gotten sloppy,” she muttered lowly as she closed her door. She continued speaking as she walked to her desk and removed her earrings. “You left a mess on my windowsill and broke my lock. I hope you intend on fixing it.”
“I already did. How is she?”
“Depressed. Traumatized. Sleepy and looking forward to the new Bondman special tomorrow. But you knew that already.”
He stepped out from the shadow of her closet, but was careful to leave about half of the room’s length between the two of them. He had already taken the liberty of removing his jacket and hanging it on the back of the door, leaving him in a sweater and slacks. The window he had cracked open and the breeze ruffled both the curtains and the ends of his hair against his forehead. His hair had grown out a lot longer than he kept it before. The tops of his ears covered, his undercut grown out to match. Goosebumps raised along her arms, across the exposed skin of her back. She shut the window.
“She looks a little better. The therapy seems to be helping some.” The words whistled in the breeze, hollow as the tree trunk beneath the balcony.
“I would really rather not talk about this with you.”
He dropped his head, nodding at the floor as he chewed the inside of his cheek. She watched him wring a pair of gloves in his hands.
“Can…can I see her?” His voice had dropped down to a hoarse whisper.
“You didn’t do enough of that today while we were out?” Yor was ashamed to admit it, but her voice was colored with more anger than she intended. She could see him flinch ever so slightly, his cheeks flush. She wondered how many times people have noticed him and called him out for it before. Probably not many. He was usually pretty good at his job.
“It’s different. Just for a minute. Please.”
She thought about it for a moment. Weighed her options. “I’m going to shower. You have until I get out.”
“Thank you, Yor.”
“Don’t thank me.”
He looked like he might have been trying to reach for her hand, but once she collected her pajamas, she stepped clearly around him to make her way to the bathroom.
It was about fifteen minutes later that Yor left the bathroom, clean in body only as her mind ran faster than she could keep up with and her conscience sat like a rock in her stomach. She found him sitting on the floor beside Anya’s bed. His head was resting on her mattress, and his hand brushed through her hair as he listened to her breathe. Watched her eyelids flutter as she dreamed. They both pretended his crying was as silent as he intended it to be.
She waited for him in her room. She stared at the same page of a book for roughly twenty more minutes before he walked back in, closing the door behind himself.
“She’s gotten taller.”
Yor nodded. “Children have a tendency to do that.”
He made no response as he stood there like a deer in headlights, his back pressed against the door, eyes unfocused as he stared into space. His breaths were a little uneven, nose red, and eyes puffy. He was pale, too.
“Your hair’s gotten long.”
“Hmm,” he replied noncommittally. “It’s…not my favorite. It gets hot.”
“Imagine how we women feel,” she smiled despite herself, and felt gratified to see him mirror it.
For a moment- just a precious few ticks of the clock’s hand, it was good. It was that same familiar comfortable kind of quiet between a couple in the evening before bed, both of them too drained to make much conversation. But she looked at him and he was wrong, and the anger came back.
“You can’t keep doing this, you know. It isn’t fair.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
A pause.
“Are you?” Yor challenged.
He met her eyes, then darted away. “Yes. And no.”
Her book, which had been resting open in her lap, was snapped closed and returned to her nightstand. She turned herself to face him as she remained sitting cross-legged on her bed.
“What are you doing here. Really.”
He pulled his gaze back to her, with the audacity to look incredulous for a half second before wiping it away. He shifted into a proper stand and shoved his hands into his pockets. Nothing like himself.
“I just needed to see you. Both of you. It’s been… hard lately.”
“Hard? Like being widowed and left a single mother only to find out that your husband was lying? And not just about his death, but everything else as well, and now he sneaks in the window a few times every month while I have to continue acting as though he’s dead while I console his daughter? Hard like that?”
He huffed. “You’re not being fair.”
“I’m not being fair? What about you not being fair!” she hissed. “Nothing about what you have done or are continuing to do is fair, but that hasn’t stopped you, has it?”
“You’re right, but unfortunately, I’m not afforded the liberty of caring about everyone’s individual opinions- including my own.”
“Oh, poor Mr. Spy. It must be hard for you leaving all the collateral damage in your wake.”
“It’s Twilight, I told you that, and you know it’s incredibly hard—”
“Don’t say that name. I don’t care to hear it.”
“Alright. What about the name Thorn Princess? Because I would care to hear more about that.”
She sat up, leaning towards where he stood in front of the door with her cheeks burning. “That has nothing to do with anything!”
“Of course it does!” He matched her anger, gesturing with his arms as he spoke. “Because the both of us were lying! It’s completely unfair of you to hold me to that standard when you yourself were in equal violation of it.”
“It doesn’t matter because I’m not the one who left!”
The two of them froze in the wake of her words. Yor from the guilt of having said them, Twilight from the guilt of her being right. Silence was worse than shouting. With nothing but the look on his face and the sound of her blood rushing in her ears, it was entirely too much and not enough all at once.
He stepped back. She pulled her knees to her chest and wiped the tears that had started to fall. Again.
“Ugh!” she groaned, digging her hands into her eyes as the crying escalated against her will.
“Hey,” noticing her crying, he looked up at her and tried to get her attention. “Yor- I’m sorry. I really am. That was cruel of me. I’m sorry.”
But she only shook her head and buried it in her folded arms atop her knees.
“Yor, please. Look at me.”
“Go away,” she whined, dignity long abandoned. “I can’t. I can’t take it anymore.”
He started- very slowly, very methodically- to walk towards her. Like a cornered animal.
“Yor—”
“Stop saying my name like that. You aren’t my husband.”
“But I do still care about you. Very much.”
“Well I don’t. I don’t care,” she lifted her head to look at the blurry shape of him as she spoke. “I don’t care about Twilight,” she spat, “or wars, or lying, or anything anymore, and maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe I’m the most horrible person in the world, but I’m not sorry because I’m so tired of losing. I don’t care about world peace. I just want my husband back.”
He was sitting next to her on the edge of the bed by the time she finished, holding her face with his hands on her cheeks just like he used to always do. No. Not him- Loid. But it was those same gentle, scarred hands-
And then she kissed him. She kissed him as much as she wanted it to have been the other way around, because she so desperately wanted him to want her again and also because that way, it could be his fault, but no. No, she kissed him because she needed him. She needed to touch him like her lungs needed air and her body needed water and he was right there-
He pulled away before it could do her any good. She followed, but he put his hands on her shoulders and held her there, eyes scanning her face, lingering on her lips.
“Yor—” his breathing was heavy, like maybe the death he missed the first time was coming back for him and it was his last taste of air. He gingerly wiped her tears away, brushing whisps of her hair back out of her face to look at her better. Almost Loid. But he still wasn’t right. “You’re so beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Maybe any other time, she’d have the decency to blush, thank him, do anything polite. Hell, before him, if any man had said half of that to her, she’d have likely accidentally killed them out of sheer embarrassment. But she just looked at him, marveling at how he suddenly seemed so familiar. Fanning that little ember that refused to die.
“You sound like him again,” she said as she raised one of her hands to cradle his face, run her fingers through the hair at his temples, trace the worry lines etched between his brows.
“He was right. And I meant it.”
“Please.” Their bodies drew closer yet, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers.
“I miss you. Both of you. I think about you every day. About coming home.”
“But you lied to me,” she cried. He shushed her softly.
“I did.” He paused. “I did, and I’m so sorry. But I meant it when I told you that I loved you. I love you still. You and Anya are the only family I’ve ever had. I’d die for you. For both of you.”
“So why can’t you stay?”
His eyes fluttered closed, long eyelashes tickling Yor’s skin. He let out a heavy, shaky breath. She fought the urge to grab him and press him flush against her- wear him like a blanket, envelop him and not let him leave.
“I want to. You know I want to,” was whispered against her, pained and watery. “I tried so hard- I’m trying, but I just can’t. Not yet.”
And just that quickly, it was over. Her husband was dead again, and the bubble burst. She batted his hands off and turned away from him.
“I think you should leave.”
“Yor, please. Just a little bit longer- after I finish what I’m working on now, they promised—”
She whipped back around to him, eyes bright with tears and anger. “Then what? Loid Forger is going to come back from the dead because you asked nicely? How is that supposed to work?” She watched his mouth open and close as responses were born and died on his tongue, but he ultimately gave no answer. She laughed a little under her breath again- tenebrific and hopeless. “That’s what I thought. It’s just another lie- and I refuse to fall for it again.”
He ran his hands through his hair, pulling on the long tresses before scrubbing over his face. When he leaned down to rest his head in his hands propped up on his knees, Yor could see how bloodshot his eyes were even in the low light.
“We can do it. I’ll find a way. Just give me more time.”
“Please don’t make more promises that you can’t keep.”
“I’m going to keep it. I swear.”
“How? It isn’t up to you. Don’t bother.”
It felt as though her chest was collapsing into itself. Like her lungs, starved of oxygen, turned to eat their way through her body starting with her heart. At least if that were the case, it would be over for her soon. She had no such luck. Life had never been that kind to her.
But for Anya’s sake, she knew she couldn’t give in. No matter how much she wanted to.
Yuri would be alright without her. He was grown now, had become accomplished, an upstanding young man with the world and all its opportunity at his feet. He was the one thing she allowed herself to feel proud of herself for. She wouldn’t be evil to leave him in her absence. But Anya didn’t have anyone else. No father, no blood family, no other option but the mother that swore to care for her- and Yor was not the kind of person to break her vows.
Unlike some.
Yor slid down onto her back then rolled to face away from him, knowing she must look like Anya when she threw a fit. Her face burned, but her cheeks were dry. Small victories.
“Are you going to stay tonight?” she asked with wide eyes staring unblinking at a crack in the plaster wall.
His weight shifted slightly on the mattress. “…Would you like me to?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
Without answering, he stood and walked to her bedroom door to kick his shoes off beside it. His sweater and belt were pulled off as well and placed on the door hook with his jacket, leaving him in his undershirt and pants. When the sounds of movement stopped, Yor reached and turned off her bedside lamp and held her breath until he slid into bed behind her.
He had a bizarre rule on nights he came to see her. He never explained and she never asked- but she did wonder. He refused to sleep under the blankets. On especially chilly nights, he might put his sweater or jacket back on, but no matter how she coaxed, he refused. Yor disliked it. She missed touching him, not even in just a sexual context (though she would be lying if she said she didn’t miss that, too). It had been many, many years since she had worried about feeling vulnerable or defenseless even in her sleep- but there was something…warm, something so soothing and inviolable about sleeping wrapped up in him. Though perhaps that’s what she had taken for granted. Before.
But life was different now, and she would take what she could.
Against her will, any ire in her body melted away when he pulled her back into him with a strong arm over her middle. His breath warmed the back of her neck as he tucked her still slightly-damp hair behind her head so he could place a kiss on her skin. When she shivered, he held her tighter and pulled the blankets over her shoulder.
“Go to sleep, Yor. It’s late. I know you’re exhausted,” he mumbled softly.
She reached for his hand on her stomach, lacing her fingers with his and pulling it tightly to her chest.
“Are you going to sleep?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t stay for too long, but I might sleep for a little while.”
“You need to sleep. You’re more tired than I am.”
“Hmm.”
Yor’s eyes burned- a combination of exhaustion and all the crying she’d done made it feel like a bottle of soap had been emptied into them. She was sure they would be horribly bloodshot and heavily bagged in the morning. No matter. She’d gotten pretty good at covering sleepless nights with makeup.
She could feel their heartrates lowering as they lay together and sank into dormancy. Her mind getting addled from all the sleep she hadn’t gotten. His breath on her neck, his thumb rubbing little circles on the back of her hand.
Maybe tomorrow they could go to the farmers market before breakfast- get some fresh berries to go with the pancakes. Anya loved the strawberries from the vendor there. Loid would inevitably sneak off at some point to get her flowers while they were there, too. He always did. They’d look so pretty on the table, livening up the space. She could barely remember the last time she’d bought flowers. Aside from his funeral.
“Loid,” Yor whispered.
“What is it, love?” he pulled her a little closer, draped a leg over the shape of hers beneath the blanket.
“Make sure you close the window on your way out in the morning before you light your cigarette. I had to tell Anya that Yuri had taken up smoking when she smelled it last week.”
He stammered a little, she was sure he was likely blushing, too. Never did like being caught. He was out of practice.
“Sorry. I won’t forget.”
Yor exhaled heavily and tucked his arm beneath her chin, kissing his hand.
“I though you kicked it years ago?”
“Yeah. I, uh- slipped a little. Working on it.”
“It’s terrible for you, you know.”
“I know.”
“You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I… I know.”
“Goodbye, Loid. Sleep well.”
“Sleep well, Yor.” He placed a soft kiss on the top of her head- the lingering wetness there having nothing to do with her shower. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Okay.”
Yor awoke the next morning feeling cold despite the extra blanket draped across her. A pillow was placed behind her, keeping her propped up in the same position she fell asleep in. When she stuck her hand out, the well-worn indent on the other side of the bed was still faintly warm. On her desk was a note, placed beside a small bouquet of roses. She stood, stretched, and stepped over to read it with trembling hands.
“I’ll be back for you both soon. I promise. Please take care of yourselves.”
And then, at the bottom in small, deliberate letters: “I love you.”
No signature.
She smiled a bit, even with the shard of anger that still lived lodged in her chest.
She caught herself rereading the last little section a few times. Tracing the dried ink with a fingertip.
A beat more of indulgence, and she folded the letter and placed it in the desk drawer with the others before taking the roses to the kitchen, placing them in a vase on a table, and getting started on the pancakes for Anya before she woke up.