Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sylvia Sherwood was a woman of routine— or so her SSS tails had been led to believe. How easy it was to lull them into complacency, how readily they believed that she was so rigid and dull.

She was hardly complaining; it was a weapon she wielded with skill.

It always left a niggling in the back of her mind, that there were machinations outside the boundaries of her routine that she missed because of it, but that’s what the rest of the WISE corps stationed in Ostania was for. For now she was simply Sylvia, attaché of Westalis’ embassy in their neighbouring nation, picking up a coffee on her morning break as she did every Friday.

She clocked the body about to make contact half a second before it did, but had to grit her teeth and take the bump.

It was a harder knock than she anticipated and the world tilted abruptly as she staggered to try and keep her balance, only for a hand to grasp her upper arm, and another to close around her grip on the coffee cup.

“I’m so sorry miss, are you alright?”

The sonorous voice of her impromptu acquaintance was a neat match for the strength of the limbs that caught her, and once Sylvia had her feet firmly back under her she turned to meet the man’s gaze, preparing to play either the embarrassed, clumsy foreign woman or the offended white-collar worker.

She was surprised to see a black man, the first she’d seen in this part of Berlint, who was much older than she’d expected. He wore a simple shirt and trousers with a plain jacket and flat cap, and his white hair was long enough to be held in a tight bun at the back of his head. There was breadth in his shoulders, but otherwise he was on the leaner side, particularly in the face.

This would normally call for the offended white-collar worker, but Sylvia was caught in the man’s gaze. His dark eyes seemed empty, his smile hollow.

And he’d bumped into her on purpose.

“Oh, goodness!” she blurted, making sure to sound flustered, “I’m really sorry for bumping into you, I wasn’t paying attention at all. My fault!”

She expelled some of her nervous energy fidgeting with her clothing and hair, one hand tight on her takeaway cup— a cup he’d caught along with her, not spilling a drop, with the strength of a man half his age.

“Not at all, miss. I knocked you rather harder than you did me. You’re not hurt, are you?”

Sylvia would normally be fighting not to roll her eyes at being called miss, but this man had at least twenty years on her. She probably was a ‘miss’ to him.

“No, no, just a bit shaken. And you even saved my coffee! Thank you,” she said, moving the cup to her other hand so she could offer a shake, “I’m Sylvia, by the way. Sylvia Sherwood.”

The man’s unnerving smile reached his blank eyes, a facsimile of a genuine expression.

“August Saros,” he answered, his voice much more convincing in its warmth, “It’s a pleasure.”

His grip was firm and warm, his hand callused and somewhat scarred. She couldn’t begin to figure out who he worked for or why he’d collided with her. Whoever it was, they were either foolish or powerful; Saros stuck out like a sore thumb in this part of the city and his approach was fairly bold.

“May I ask where it is you’re headed in such a rush?” he asked, his tone politely amused.

Sylvia feigned embarrassment.

“I don’t mean to walk so fast, honestly... I always grab a coffee on the corner there on my Friday morning break, and I just take a walk around the shops to stretch my legs before I have to get back to work. I get so stiff and restless just being sat at my desk all day.”

“I see. I’m not too familiar with desk work myself, but I can’t imagine being cooped up inside all day.”

He hadn’t dropped the smile once. The most concerning part was that Sylvia was starting to get used to it; his body language and vocal tone were so calm and jovial that they overrode the unease his expression caused. She’d have to keep her wits about her.

“You work outside then, Mr. Saros?”

“Yes, I’m a groundsman for the city.”

Sylvia couldn’t imagine him in a park, tending diligently to the trees and verges. If she’d ever spotted him working in one, she’d have clocked him immediately. “Ah, so we have you to thank for that lush park!”

Saros shifted, raised a hand to adjust his cap as he glanced away for a moment— bashful, or pretending to be.

“I’m hardly the only one keeping things healthy, but I appreciate it all the same. It’s not often I get thanks for my job.”

Sylvia put on a warm smile. “Well then, let me be one of the few to do so. It’s easy to forget how much work gets put into things like that, but who knows what state we’d all be in without people like you.”

Saros’ face went truly blank at that, and when he smiled again his eyes crinkled, his expression almost looking real for a moment.

“Well,” he said at length, a new note to his voice, “you’re very welcome, miss.”

Keeping her smile in place, Sylvia switched her coffee back to her right hand to check her watch. “Not much of my break left, it looks like. I’d better get moving! I hope you have a good day, Mr. Saros.”

Sylvia was poised to move once she heard the sentiment reciprocated, but Saros stayed silent. Once again she felt pinned by those eyes. She wanted to keep her composure, but it was more convincing to let her nerves show. August Saros... she needed to get someone on that name ASAP.

“Every Friday morning?” he asked at length.

“Y-yes, that’s right. I’m a creature of habit.”

He chuckled warmly.

“Then I shall keep an eye out next Friday,” he said, tipping his hat, “so as not to barrel into you again. You take care, Miss Sherwood.”

With that he stepped away, somehow vanishing into the crowd of white faces within seconds.

Sylvia could feel sweat on the back of her neck, heart beating rabbit-fast. She would also have to keep an eye out next Friday... preferably armed to the teeth with information on that man.

August Saros... who sent you?

Chapter Text

The next six Friday morning breaks were spent extra vigilant, but there was no sign of Saros. The information her team had found was sparse, the most detailed records being on an unremarkable military career.

Then again, if he had done anything remarkable it had likely been glossed over on paper, perhaps attributed to someone else. It wasn’t uncommon for officers to literally whitewash their reports, to deny that soldiers of any other race had accomplished anything noteworthy or treat them as scapegoats, cheating them out of everything from medals to pensions.

Was Saros getting a better deal from whoever sent him, or was it desperation that led him there?

The weather had taken a turn. The cold was biting as Sylvia stepped out onto the street and even with her winter coat she hurried to the coffee shop. At least her tails had to deal with this weather too.

She was particularly grateful for her coffee once she had it. It heated her gloved hands and seared comfortingly down her throat with each swallow. She paused for a moment to savour it— only for a moment, but that was enough.

Saros was there when she looked up again.

“Oh! Mr. Saros!”

“Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Sherwood.”

Sylvia got the feeling that wasn’t quite true.

“Please, don’t worry at all! I was completely distracted by my coffee. There’s something so lovely about a hot drink on a cold day, isn’t there?”

His odd smile didn’t waver, but he was noticeably hunched against the cold, hands tucked in pockets. His jacket was the same as six weeks ago, but the way it sat indicated layers underneath.

“That’s not something I enjoy often, I admit. Usually when I’m out in this weather I’m working up a sweat regardless. I try not to run errands when it’s frigid, but some things are unavoidable.”

“That’s a shame! I must admit, for all I might complain, I did choose to come out here.”

“A creature of habit, indeed,” he quoted, warm and mirthful. A shiver came over him.

“Is it an urgent errand? I really can’t recommend the coffee enough!” It was an honest urging; it was very good coffee.

Dark eyes flicked past her, glancing at the little coffee shop.

“I suppose I could, but honestly I’ve never been one for coffee. I used to down a cup or two as a younger man, to get through early mornings, but instead of acquiring a taste it rather put me off entirely.”

Sylvia’s stomach hurt. Her husband had liked it with milk and sugar, used to throw back black coffee like a shot at the crack of dawn, grimacing after. She could hear her daughter giggling at her father’s funny face.

Swallowing another mouthful of coffee (swallowing the memory) (swallowing the pain) Sylvia tilted her head. “They do tea as well. Though I’d be surprised if they didn’t, tea’s such a big thing here in Ostania. Westalis runs on coffee like trains run on tracks.”

Saros shivered as the wind picked up, shuffling a little closer to the shop fronts. No one had found a concrete date of birth, but he had to be in his sixties at the youngest. That wind must have been cutting right through him, but his smile stayed.

“They wouldn’t serve me,” he said simply, and Sylvia felt like a fool.

“... Right.” She realised she was frowning and sipped her coffee, smoothing her features back to pleasantly neutral.

“You take your coffee black?” Saros inquired, politely curious.

“With just a little sugar,” Sylvia answered, playing a touch coy as if admitting a guilty little secret. In a way, it was one; her own spies didn’t know how she liked her coffee.

“Ah, I see. You came to Ostania so that Westalis couldn’t prosecute you for sacrilege.”

Sylvia laughed. The sound burst out of her in utter surprise and it took her a moment to regain her composure.

“Shh! Don’t you read the news? There are ears everywhere, you know!” she said, taking refuge in audacity. It had served her well in the past.

Eyes crinkling, Saros said “My hands are hardly clean. I take both milk and sugar in my tea.”

“Oh, I thought that was the traditional way here. Have I got that wrong?”

“The traditional way is very particular. It has to be cream and rock sugar, for one, and you don’t stir to mix it. A proper Ostanian tea is a layered experience; creamy then bitter then sweet. I definitely recommend at least trying it once, but I rarely have the time to do it properly,” he paused briefly, looked over his shoulder, then said, “To be honest, I prefer a consistent flavour to my tea.”

“Defying tradition, Mr. Saros? No wonder the coffee shop won’t serve you.”

She shouldn’t have said that. That was the sort of joke she’d make with someone she’d known for years, not a suspicious stranger— but Saros barked a startled laugh of his own before stifling it with a gloved fist.

“Were you unaware of my notoriety?” he teased warmly, “You’d best hurry along, before someone sees you talking to me.”

Sylvia couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like this. Saros didn’t unnerve her anywhere near as much as he had at first; she couldn’t tell if it was entirely his calm charisma, or if somewhere between this ‘visit’ and the last whoever sent him had decided she didn’t need to be threatened.

This time, it was Saros who checked his watch. “It was lovely to speak to you, Miss Sherwood, but I really shouldn’t keep you out in the cold any longer.”

“Oh, of course,” Sylvia said, “the sooner you get your errand sorted the sooner you can warm up! I’ll see you another time, Mr. Saros?”

Saros’ smile grew a touch warmer. “Another time.”

They parted with a wave, heading off in opposite directions. Sylvia felt herself smiling still, a newly cheerful mood buoying her through most of her walk. The embassy was in sight when she realised.

Oh, you stupid woman, she scolded herself. Six weeks spent looking into him as suspicious, theorising about who he worked for and what they wanted, and here she was getting lulled into a false sense of security from one disarming conversation.

That was dangerous. He was dangerous, whether he intended harm or not. Gritting her teeth as she discarded her empty takeaway cup, Sylvia vowed not to let her guard down again.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, with the coffee shop in sight, Sylvia’s eyes met Saros’ before he could take her by surprise.

Stay aware, she told herself firmly as she smiled, waving.

“Good morning, Mr. Saros! I spotted you this time,” she greeted playfully, pretending she didn’t know he’d intended to be seen.

That same, warm chuckle followed, breath visible in the cold air. “Good morning, Miss Sherwood. So you did, despite me catching you earlier than usual, it seems. Please, don’t let me keep you.”

“I’ll only be a moment!” Sylvia promised, waving for him to stay put before she ducked into the coffee shop.

Her timing was perfect, the person before her just receiving their cup as she stepped in. She was greeted and handed her coffee order almost immediately; they could set their watches by her arrival, and it was with her heart in her throat that Sylvia disrupted her carefully crafted routine.

She made sure to smile brightly as she stepped back out into the cold, Saros’ own eerie smile faltering at the sight of the second cup.

“For you,” she said brightly, holding it to him, “with milk and sugar, if memory serves!”

Saros’ face was unnervingly blank. He made no move to take the cup. Sylvia’s instinct was to hold firm and wait him out, but that wasn’t the sort of thing that a civilian would do— or rather, be expected to do. A spy didn’t have the luxury of defying expectation, but playing to it served very well. People didn’t pry into what they expected to see. So instead she let herself waver, let her uncertainty show on her face as her confident offering arm started to bend in hesitation.

The old man shivered as an icy gust blew through the street, and finally he broke eye contact to look at the cup instead.

No one made her anxious to break a silence like this man did. “I... I’m sor—“

“It would seem,” Saros interrupted gravely, “that it’s your turn to take me by surprise.”

Without knowing why he’d reacted this way, Sylvia could only fall back on her civilian act. She smiled sheepishly, retracting her arm properly.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked before I went and did that... I only— it felt quite rude to buy myself a coffee and leave you with nothing. Especially given how cold it still is.”

“Ah,” Saros murmured, finally starting to smile again, “Forgive me Miss Sherwood, I know I have quite a severe face. I’m surprised that you remembered.”

Surprised that she remembered his tea preference. Playing along with his apparent attempt to lighten the mood, she said, “A woman doesn’t get far in the workplace without a good memory for these things, Mr. Saros. Every woman in a high-ranking administration position started her career as a coffee-fetcher.”

That did make him laugh, his shoulders loosening (she hadn’t consciously realised he was tense) but he cut himself off with another shiver. It was freezing out here.

“Alright,” he said softly to himself, as if conceding, then more conversationally, “Alright. Thank you, Miss Sherwood. I am grateful; only I don’t know how I’m going to repay you.”

Smiling brightly, Sylvia thrust the tea towards him again. “Oh, don’t worry about that! Think of it as my thanks for all the work you do to keep this lovely country so beautiful.”

Saros’ eyebrows shot up— he looked absolutely tickled, and he playfully tipped his cap. “I shan’t argue with you then.”

His eyes crinkled as he took the cup. He’d had one hand in his pocket until now, but he didn’t wait long before wrapping them both around his tea.

He let his eyes close as he inhaled the steam, and suddenly she could see him in a park; smelling roses or watching butterflies, letting that eerie vigilance fall away to take joy in something small.

“Don’t let me keep you,” he said softly, not opening his eyes.

Possibly he knew she was watching him closely, but if so it wouldn’t benefit him to admit it. She deemed the idea unlikely and set it aside. “A walk is well and good, Mr. Saros, but good company is better.”

Saros did look at her then. “Good company... it’s not often I’m accused of that.”

“I suppose my standards are fairly low,” Sylvia hedged, “Most of my colleagues think I’m a silly little lady trying to do a man’s job, and the people of Ostania are generally unwelcoming towards me.”

“I didn’t realise the embassy was staffed by fools,” he said mildly, “but I’m afraid there is still much anger in our people for Westalis. It’s only in recent years that food has stopped being scarce, and everyone lost someone to the bombings.”

Sylvia’s hands tightened around her coffee cup. She refused to look at her ringless finger. She tried to push away the memory imprinted behind her eyes— stuck to a wall—

“Which is of course entirely my fault, and God forbid I mention the bombs you dropped on our homes,” she snapped, and immediately cursed herself for it. She was Sylvia Sherwood, highest ranking WISE operative in Ostania, and here she was slipping like a rookie with a bullet in her future.

But Saros didn’t rise to it. His smile was gone, but he simply watched her, something quietly sad in his dark eyes.

She squeezed her own shut. “... Though I suppose I rather proved myself a hypocrite, there.”

“One can only be pushed so far,” Saros intoned, “Our nations have done unspeakable things to each other. The people with the power to prevent such from ever happening again weren’t touched by it, seek to stoke hatred in each other rather than aiming it towards the warmongers and blood-soaked businessmen profiteering from the suffering.”

Everyone lost someone, he’d said. Sylvia wondered who he might have lost.

“It isn’t often,” she whispered, “that suffering makes men kind.”

“Suffering doesn’t make anyone kind,” he refuted, “Suffering breeds cruelty that breeds more suffering.”

Sylvia looked up at Saros again, saw him staring into his tea.

“But more often than you’d think,” he continued, gaze lifting to the oblivious passers-by, “will kindness persist in spite of it. Not alone within one man, but offered by and to another. I would argue, Miss Sherwood, that proof of kindness is what makes men kind.”

Only then did Saros turn to look at her, features warming with a smile once more. He lifted his cup in a pseudo-toast and sipped his tea, shutting his eyes to relish it.

Sylvia felt herself smile as he did so, lifting her own coffee to her lips. A hot drink really was a wonderful thing on such a cold day.

They were quiet for little bit, just standing together in the street and indulging in their drink of choice. Saros did seem a touch less frigid and she found that she was glad of it.

She quickly checked her watch; still time yet. Saros spied the motion and hummed thoughtfully.

“I came out here for something specific.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I... can’t for the life of me remember what.”

He sounded genuinely perplexed, and his frown was equally so.

“Oh dear,” Sylvia said, feeling a twinge of misplaced guilt, “I didn’t mean to completely derail your morning.”

“Not at all,” Saros shook his head, tipping his cup to finish his tea, “This has been... this was nice. I suppose I’ve been quite lucky in the memory department, at my age.”

Sylvia chuckled, “I hope this is an exception rather than an omen!”

Saros discreetly crossed himself, and Sylvia really laughed at that.

“... Thank you, Miss Sherwood. You’re quite right; a hot drink on a cold morning is just lovely.”

“Thank you, Mr. Saros. Some of the things you said today... I needed to hear them, I think.”

They parted with warm smiles and promises to see each other next week, and it took three hours for Sylvia to realise she’d missed an opportunity to ask his age.

Next time, she swore.

Chapter Text

There was bruising around Saros’ left eye and the bridge of his nose, which bore a split that neatly matched the one on his upper lip.

“Mr. Saros! What on earth happened to you?”

It was obvious to Sylvia’s discerning eye that the damage was caused by blows from fists within the past twenty-four hours and there was a touch of extra care in his movements, suggesting further injury. She reminded herself firmly that a civilian wouldn’t be able to tell without something more damning on display. If he tried to play it off as an accident, she would play along.

“Ah,” he ducked his head with a flash of embarrassment, flyaway white curls falling in front of his face, but there was something cold and hard in his eyes when he looked back up, “I got mugged.”

“Mugged?” Sylvia gasped, “Someone mugged you?” Unlikely. While the elderly were certainly vulnerable targets for mugging, Saros was working class and black. It was much more likely to be a racially motivated assault, but the pieces didn’t quite fit together.

Saros huffed, tone aiming for light but a hint of bitterness showed through. He didn’t move to adjust his hair; he still had a bun at the nape of his neck, but it was much looser and messier. “Yes, yes... foolishness on my part. I’ve lived in Berlint for decades; you’d think I could figure out when not to take alleyway shortcuts.”

Saros had a documented military career spanning both wars. He could appear and disappear without Sylvia’s notice, as if he were a ghost. He was clearly still physically able and healthy. She couldn’t forget the strength and control he’d displayed when he’d nearly knocked her off her feet that first time— something that had happened intentionally, though on whose order she still didn’t know.

Saros was dangerous.

“It’s hardly your fault that someone mugged you! I can’t believe that happened... were you hurt badly? I hope they didn’t take too much from you.”

The pieces didn’t fit together. Mugging or hate crime, it shouldn’t have made a difference; Saros should have been able to disable or evade his attackers with only superficial injury. It was much more likely that this was relating to his mysterious employers.

With a jolt of fear, Sylvia wondered if she was part of a job that Saros was supposed to be doing. She wondered if he was failing, if the lack of results had got him punished.

But Saros’ smile was just a little dark and satisfied when he answered, “Oh, they didn’t get anything from me. I don’t know what they were expecting to find.”

His eyes flicked, just for an instant, over her shoulder and she felt her blood run cold.

The SSS members tailing her.

They’d decided he was a person of interest, coming out of nowhere and disrupting Sylvia’s carefully crafted routine, and they weren’t gentle about investigating him. And why would they be? He was working class and black. He was likely condemned to the violence of the secret police the moment he bumped into her.

Saros’ smile faltered, and his eyebrows raised. Sylvia glanced at her reflection in a shop window and quickly schooled her expression again, though she lingered with her reflection a moment to fuss with her hair. She couldn’t believe she’d let herself slip like that! Saros was dangerous, and he’d seen her react...

But his smile returned, warmer than before, sharp edges dulling. Work with what you’ve got.

Taking a fortifying breath, Sylvia let her own edges sharpen and said, “Good, then. I’m glad. Horrible people like that don’t deserve a thing from you.”

“It’s always a risk, unfortunately. You never know who’s got their eyes on you out here.” There was a secret in his smile this time, a secret shared with her.

“You’re not wrong,” she agreed, “but it’s awful all the same. I’m... so sorry they did that to you.”

He chuckled. “It’s hardly your fault what thugs get up to.”

“Still...” she trailed off, letting the guilt show. The best lies were truth at an angle. “Let me at least buy you something to eat along with your tea. This shop does marvellous applesauce croissants!”

Saros’ voice was warm and mirthful as he murmured, “You do like twisting my arm, don’t you Miss Sherwood?”

“I’m taking that as an agreement,” she answered primly, and turned smartly on her heel to go into the coffee shop. The tinkling of the bell harmonised unexpectedly with his laughter.

When she’d collected their drinks and his croissant, Sylvia was surprised to find that Saros seemed to have zoned out while waiting. He looked at her as she stepped up to him again, but for a moment his face had been blank, his eyes unfocused. He didn’t shift his weight back, even as he smiled despite his battered face.

He’s definitely more extensively injured than it seems, though with the SSS that’s hardly a shock.

“For you, Mr. Saros,” she declared, “Hot tea and a sweet treat for your troubles.”

“Thank you, Miss Sherwood. Let’s see if this applesauce croissant is worth the bruises,” he said, deftly manoeuvring around his cup to free his pastry from its bag.

“... It is only bruises, then?”

“Oh? Yes, yes. Just bruises.”

There was no way of knowing if he was telling the truth or not, but he was already concealing the extent from her. It didn’t fill Sylvia with confidence.

“That’s good to hear. Not that bruises are at all pleasant, but you never know when a... thug is armed.”

“Hm, quite true. It’s a reasonable concern, and I do appreciate it,” Saros peered at the croissant as if unsure how to tackle it, then chuckled and said, “I promise I was only bludgeoned.”

Damn her, but she laughed. She wasn’t sure if it was her career with WISE or the war that had twisted her sense of humour so. Possibly both.

But Saros smiled at her laughter, pleased, and took a— very small— bite.

Of course. His face had to still be hurting. Was that why his bun was loose today? Did the tension of pulling his hair taut aggravate the facial bruises? Or did blows to his body make it painful to lift his arms above his shoulders?

She had no way of knowing and worry niggled at her. She was somewhat heartened by Saros’ pleased hum and continued interest in the croissant; an appetite was a good sign.

She waited until he’d eaten about half of it to ask, “What do you think?”

He hummed cheerfully in response. After a sip of tea, he said, “If it gets me one of these I’m willing to get beaten, oh, maybe once a fortnight.”

“Only once a fortnight? I’ll have to find something better, then,” she teased.

“Oh, don’t,” he laughed, “I’m not as young as I used to be. I need a few mornings where I can get out of bed without regretting it.”

Sylvia laughed as well, pausing to drink some of her coffee. “Well, alright. Once a fortnight, then.”

He was injured, but not badly and in good spirits. It was technically her fault that he’d been hurt but he didn’t blame her for it. He’d been targeted by the SSS but was back on the streets of Berlint within 24 hours. In spite of all the odds being against him, Saros would be alright.

Sylvia didn’t take a brisk walk down the street and back again while drinking her coffee. She didn’t when Saros came to see her. He broke her routine.

Yet, even as they stood there in silence with the world passing them by, she found she enjoyed it. It was a comfortable quiet.

The world kept turning without them, though, and eventually she had to concede that her break was about over. “Will I see you again soon, Mr. Saros?”

Saros looked up from disposing of his cup, briefly surprised. “If you’re not annoyed with me disrupting your breaks, then certainly.”

“I’ll see you next week, then?” she pressed brightly.

Saros laughed and tipped his cap, “Aye ma’am, next week. Sharpish,” he added, smile softening, “I’ll see you then, Miss Sherwood.”

“You certainly will! I’m here every Friday morning, like clockwork.”

“A creature of habit,” Saros agreed warmly.

“Take care, Mr. Saros,” Sylvia said as she turned, waving, to head back to work. And if she was smiling, well... her co-workers would just ask if she’d bumped into her friend again.

Chapter Text

As promised, Saros met up with Sylvia the following Friday. His bruises looked better and his movements less stiff, which cheered her significantly.

“Good morning!” she greeted, handing Saros his tea.

“Good morning,” he answered, smiling warmly, “How has your week been?”

“Uneventful,” Sylvia huffed tiredly, not really talking about the embassy, “We were hoping for much more to be happening, but things are stalling out instead.”

“Ah, the wheel of progress,” Saros said loftily, “ever getting stuck in the mud.”

“I’ll say,” Sylvia laughed, “and the mud just seems to get thicker.”

Saros lifted his cup in a toast and Sylvia laughed harder.

Things fell into a comfortable quiet for a moment as they drank. Over the hustle and bustle of Berlint’s streets Sylvia could hear carol singers somewhere in the distance.

“That time of year again,” Saros murmured, before smiling at Sylvia and asking, “Do you have any plans?”

“Oh... no,” Sylvia answered, heart aching, “I have no one to spend it with, really. I’ll just be at home with my dog.”

Saros hummed, frowning slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is your family still in Westalis, then?”

It was a reasonable question. Sylvia was tempted to lie, to say yes and talk about the husband and daughter still living at home, far away but safe and breathing.

“... No.”

Saros looked away from her, but not with the sudden self-consciousness of someone who realised they’d said the wrong thing. It was slow and thoughtful.

“... Perhaps I should get a dog.”

The non-sequitur made Sylvia blink, and she ran the conversation back in her head.

“Oh!” she realised, “You’ll be by yourself as well?”

Saros hummed affirmatively and sipped his tea. “That’s not new for me, though. I can count on one hand the number of times I had real plans in the last— it must be twenty years by now,” he paused to shake his head a little, “The time gets away from me.”

Everyone lost someone to the bombings. Saros had lived through both wars.

“... I don’t know if having a dog will help much. I only got him a couple of months ago.”

“Oh?” Saros peered at her curiously from behind the steam of his tea.

Sylvia chuckled despite herself and said, “I didn’t intend to get a dog, to be completely honest with you. There were two dogs that needed homes and while one was going to a family, they couldn’t take both and their young daughter was distraught about it. I ended up promising to adopt him myself. I’m... bad at saying no to teary little girls.”

There was too much truth in that. Enough to hurt. She needed to rein it in, but Saros’ dark eyes met her gaze with nothing but understanding.

“I’m much the same,” he said gently, “I look back on those choices and call myself a fool, but when you have the chance to do something...”

When you had the chance to do something, and you took it no matter what because you couldn’t when it mattered before. When you knew you could never take your little girl into your arms again, but you could smooth Anya’s hair and promise that the dog she was crying for would be fed and warm and cared for. When you had the chance to make the world a gentler place than it was when it ripped your baby away from you.

“Yeah... when you can...” Sylvia’s voice warbled and she realised with a jolt that she was welling up with tears.

Saros kindly averted his eyes and let her regain her composure.

Finally, Sylvia cleared her throat and said, “It’s a shame it’s not on a Friday this year.”

It was Saros’ turn to blink in quiet surprise.

Sylvia met him with a smile, but Saros didn’t compose himself with his usual smooth efficiency. His stare only broke when his breath hitched and he abruptly turned away.

Sylvia’s smile fell. She hadn’t meant to upset him, but she supposed this topic was a bit of a minefield.

Saros took a breath and turned back to her. “You’re a kind woman, Miss Sherwood.”

“Hardly,” she denied, “You’re an easy man to get along with, Mr. Saros.”

The implication sat heavy over the hustle and bustle of Berlint’s streets. An unspoken confession, heard regardless.

“I’m not sure I’d be very good company, on the day.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Sylvia dismissed, “We can be miserable old bastards together.”

That, finally, got a laugh— a proper laugh, the sort he had to stifle so as not to draw attention.

Out of the corner of her eye Sylvia saw a face she recognised. She glanced at her reflection in a shop window to see the spy more clearly, but he retreated without passing anything along. For a moment she wondered why, what danger he had spotted to make him pull back; but of course, she’d implemented radio silence in Saros’ presence herself, hadn’t she?

Because he’s dangerous, she reminded herself firmly.

“Are you planning on staying in, then?”

“Oh, yes I think so. I don’t think I’ll do a fancy dinner about it, either.” Not that Sylvia did proper dinners very often, these days. It seemed a lot of effort for just her every day.

She grimaced abruptly. The thought had just occurred to her: what in the world was Twilight going to do for Anya? The rented castle that had destroyed WISE’s budget for Operation: Strix was just for successfully passing Eden’s entrance exam, God only knew what he’d get her for Christmas. For morale, of course. Or the illusion of family. Some embarrassingly flagrant excuse, she was sure.

“Not a fan of fancy dinners, or just not keen on cooking them?” Saros asked, audibly amused.

“Ah, sorry, no. I just... might be contacted by my nephew about helping buy some expensive gift for his daughter.”

“A nephew?” Saros prompted, eyebrows raised in interest.

“My sister’s son,” Sylvia lied. She always chose for any “nephews” or “nieces” to be her “sister’s” to make it as normal as possible for none of these apparent family members to be attached to her by name, “We’re not close, but feel obligated to keep in contact. You know the sort.”

“I can’t say I do,” Saros refuted mildly, “but I imagine any distant relatives I may have are a bit further afield than just across the border.”

“Ah, of course.” Technology had come a long way over the past decade, making it possible to keep in contact even from different continents, but in Saros’ youth it wouldn’t have been possible. To immigrate so far would have been to abandon everything.

“Although...” Saros paused to drink his tea, seemingly deep in thought, “There is a young lady I could send a gift to. She would appreciate the gesture, I think.”

Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Saros! I didn’t take you for the type!”

Saros’ return eyebrow was deeply unimpressed.

Unrepentant, Sylvia finished her coffee. “So who is this young lady, then?”

“Ah... one of those teary young girls I couldn’t say no to,” he answered, aiming for a lighter tone and just falling short, “Fourteen years ago she was hip-height and looking after her brother alone. There was little I could give at the time but a job, though I hardly wanted to put such a young thing to work...”

“I see,” Sylvia said gently, “one of those choices you look back on and call yourself a fool over?”

“Yes. Though I have to say, she took to it incredibly well.”

“A skilled gardener, is she?”

Saros’ smile was wide. “Oh, she’s my first call for the tricky jobs. Even when faced with something she’s never tackled before, she digs in with aplomb and succeeds magnificently. If she could muster up a bit more confidence in herself she’d be off to bigger and better things by now, but instead she keeps on coming back to me with worries and questions.”

“Ah, that’s a pain,” Sylvia muttered. She could empathise; some very promising agents turned out unsuitable for deep cover work purely because they couldn’t stop second-guessing themselves.

“Well,” Saros said, a gentler note to his voice, “I can’t complain. I’d miss her if she stopped visiting.”

So that’s how it is. Not just bonds of sympathy and employment, but someone he genuinely cared about.

“Maybe she feels the same,” Sylvia offered.

He didn’t answer, but the small smile that graced his face was the realest she’d seen.

They stood a little longer in comfortable silence, but the end of Sylvia’s morning break loomed.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

“As it must,” Saros answered, “Until next time, then?”

It felt silly for that to be a question. “Until next time.”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t Friday. It was gone three in the afternoon. She had brought coffee, but she’d brought Aaron as well.

What are you doing, Sylvia?

Sylvia Sherwood, attaché of Westalis’ embassy, was not known to be a woman of spontaneity. She was dry and dull and rigid in her schedule.

The fact that she had come out to the empty high street with her dog, her usual coffee shop closed along with every bank and business, when she had no good reason to be here—

It was an unimaginable risk. What was she doing?

And yet...

They hadn’t discussed it. Made no arrangements, didn’t so much float the idea as ponder the concept, and only fleetingly. Just a thought. A nice sentiment.

And yet he was here.

“Miss Sherwood,” he greeted quietly, “and this must be Aaron?”

As he reached out a hand for the dog to investigate, Sylvia felt a knot unravel in her gut at the lack of a more festive greeting. She’d had to grit her teeth through it from everyone at the embassy over the past few days and then her spies had started in.

“Mr. Saros,” she greeted in return, “you’re quite right. And I’ve brought you your tea, of course.”

She held out the full thermos flask with a wan smile, and Saros’ expression was gentle as he took it from her.

“And you claim not to be kind,” he admonished warmly.

Sylvia didn’t answer, instead taking hold of Aaron’s leash properly now she had a hand free. He was a well-trained and intelligent dog, happily trotting alongside her with the handle looped around her wrist, but it felt more natural to hold it properly.

They didn’t speak as they walked. It was a fairly aimless walk, but Sylvia eventually realised she was heading to the dog park out of habit. Saros didn’t seem to mind.

No one else was there when they arrived. The weather was cold and grey, so it wasn’t really a surprise, but it was nice to have some space to themselves after huddling on busy streets for weeks.

Sylvia let Aaron off his leash and tugged a tennis ball out of her pocket to throw for him.

They watched the dog charge across the park after it as they sipped their drinks.

“I had a husband,” Sylvia said, “and a young daughter.”

Saros hummed softly, just enough to let her know he was listening. Sylvia didn’t have anything more to say. Neither of them looked at each other. She waited.

Everyone lost someone.

Saros took a deep breath and let it slowly go. When Aaron ran back with the ball between his jaws, wagging, Saros said, “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

Sylvia had forgotten how strong he was. The ball damn near cleared the park and Aaron took off like a missile after it.

There was the occasional passer-by, but always off in the distance. All headed somewhere.

“Three nephews,” Saros breathed a pale cloud of warm breath, “A granddaughter.”

Nephews meant at least one sibling. A granddaughter meant at least one child. Likely a wife. Saros had spent this day alone for so long that he had to pause and do the maths. The most sickening part was that even one of the two wars could have taken his entire family from him.

It was possible it wasn’t even bombs that did most of the work. Starvation and disease had killed so many.

She didn’t ask. Neither did he. Aaron came running back panting, tongue lolling, but he didn’t beg either of them to throw the ball again. He rested his head on Saros’ knee instead, the way he sometimes did on Sylvia’s bad nights.

Despite it all, Saros chuckled. “Aaron is definitely helping.”

Sylvia watched him scratch Aaron behind the ears. “He’s a good dog.”

Aaron’s ears perked and his tail wagged harder.

It should have felt strange, sitting in the dim empty park in near silence with that dull, grim mood hanging over them, but instead it felt... almost comfortable. Sylvia had finished her coffee but the thermos still had plenty of tea to keep Saros warm out here.

Eventually, she murmured, “Do you want to throw the ball again? I’m worried he’ll get cold if he sits still too long.”

“Of course,” Saros answered, just as quietly.

He stood but didn’t pitch the ball quite so hard this time. Aaron made a valiant attempt to catch it before it hit the floor but missed and went scrambling. It didn’t deter him at all, snatching the ball up and running straight back to Saros.

They made a proper game of it, Saros throwing in the odd trick shot to throw Aaron off, but by God that dog was clever. He managed to catch most of them before they touched the grass.

Good. That made it easier to take the package out from her coat without being obvious.

Sylvia finally felt herself smile naturally when Saros took a knee in the damp grass to give the panting dog a proper fuss. She was glad she brought Aaron along.

“He’s a smart thing, your dog,” he praised as he eased to his feet again, brushing off places of grass. Aaron’s positive response to the words did nothing to disabuse Saros of the notion, Sylvia was sure.

Saros adjusted his cap and turned to come back to the bench, only to pause as he spotted the crinkling package and its shiny sticker.

“I’m not much of a cook, as I’ve said,” Sylvia told him, “and certainly no baker! I had to pull some strings to get these across the border.”

“Good grief,” Saros uttered as he settled on the bench next to her, reaching for his tea, “What contraband have you smuggled into my country?”

That made her laugh. “Why don’t you try one and see?”

Saros eyed the sticker first, reading what was printed there.

“Little Bethmann?”

“Original Frankford Little Bethmann,” Sylvia insisted, loosening the ribbon, “A Westalian favourite at this time of year. Try one, they’re good.”

“You haven’t led me wrong so far,” Saros admitted and carefully plucked up one of the little baked goods.

Aaron shoved his face into Sylvia’s lap, sniffing the package intently.

“No, not for you!” Sylvia protested, pushing his nose away.

“Mm! This isn’t just baked with marzipan, is it? It’s like the other ingredient have been added to the marzipan to actually make a dough of it. And then an egg wash?”

“With rosewater,” Sylvia confirmed.

Saros delicately took another little Bethmann. “You’re going to need to take those away from me.”

“No need,” she chuckled, depositing the package on his lap, “they’re for you.”

Shock. Not a blank stare that could be construed as shock; open shock, unobscured.

“For me?”

“For you, Mr. Saros.”

“... You’ve rather made a heel of me, Miss Sherwood. I... didn’t think to bring anything for you.”

Sylvia laughed. “I think I’m the stranger person in this case, bringing a gift to a meeting we didn’t arrange in the hope you might be there.”

A pause was followed by Saros’ warm laugh. “Luck does favour the prepared. Besides, if I hadn’t been there you could have kept them all to yourself.”

“Very true.” Was that a family entering the dog park, off in the distance?

“These are dangerously moreish. I don’t think they’ll last the day.”

That big, white dog looked awfully familiar. “Well, why not? It is Christmas.”

As did that man.

“Very true,” Saros echoed, also watching the family in the distance, “Though I’m afraid it won’t do me any good to stay out in this cold much longer.”

There was genuine regret in his voice, but Sylvia could hardly argue with him.

“Keep the thermos, too. I really don’t use it much.”

“You spoil me, Miss Sherwood. I’ll have to surprise you next time.”

Sylvia felt her own expression gentle in response. “You came. That’s enough.”

Saros’ smile was a small thing. “Will I see you on Friday?”

“Oh, of course!” Sylvia said brightly, “Business as usual by then.”

“Business as usual,” Saros echoed fondly, “You take care of yourself, Miss Sherwood.”

“Only if you do the same, Mr. Saros.”

Saros waved as he left. Sylvia’s smile faded even as Aaron perked up, recognising his fellow experiment.

“Well,” she said to the dog, “we should go too.”

But for once, Aaron didn’t listen. Sylvia should have put him back on the lead when she realised exactly which family that was, but it was too late now— the shepherd was off like a shot.

She hadn’t considered that Aaron would want to play with Bond again. And here was Sylvia, out as herself...!

Calm down, Sylvia. It’s a dog park, people meet here. It happens. Just collect Aaron, apologise and go home.

She steeled herself and got off the bench, jogging after her dog and calling for him to come back like a hapless fool.

“I’m so sorry!” she blustered once she was in earshot, “He’s just so excitable!”

“Ah, that’s quite alright, our Bond’s quite friendly,” Twilight— Loid Forger, a man Sylvia Sherwood had never met— assured her.

Sylvia quickly clipped his lead onto his collar. “Please do excuse us, we were just heading home out of the cold. Have fun with your dog!”

Twilight’s eyebrow twitched like it wanted to lift in disbelief, but he smiled politely and said, “Of course, thank you. Merry Christmas!”

Sylvia felt something in her own face twitch, but before she could answer in kind Yor Briar sucked in a sharp breath and took off in a dead sprint across the park.

“Ah...” Twilight blinked rapidly.

“Mama’s speedy,” Anya intoned sagely.

Sylvia exchanged a look with Twilight. She adjusted her glasses, trying to see where Yor had gone to...

Ah, she’d met someone at the edge of the park. She must have had incredible eyesight to spot them from this distance.

“Looks like she’s seen a friend,” Sylvia said cheerfully, but before she could make her exit Twilight spoke, sounding baffled.

“I can’t think of anyone Yor would so badly want to see... it doesn’t look like her brother?”

She didn’t do this often, then. Anomalous behaviour was always a concern until it could be proven otherwise.

That didn’t change the fact that Sylvia needed to leave.

Anya gasped, “Mama’s hugging!”

“What?” Twilight hissed, squinting.

Shit. Shit shit shit. If the mother of the Forger family had her eyes on someone outside of the marriage, things could get difficult for Operation: Strix. Not impossible, but very difficult.

Before anyone could do anything though, Yor came racing back with something cupped in her hands. She made eye contact with Sylvia and started stammering.

“I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to just rush off like that! Oh, how terribly rude of me...”

“It’s quite alright...” Sylvia demurred.

“Who was that, Yor?” Twilight asked mildly, perfectly projecting fond interest and none of his anxiety.

“Oh! That- that was- the person I told you about earlier!”

“The one who had those potted herbs delivered? It was a very thoughtful gift for our kitchen.”

“I didn’t think I’d get to see him today,” Yor said softly, “I’m really glad he was here. Oh— and he gave me these! One for each of us!”

Yor held out her hands and showed them... three little Bethmanns.

Sylvia’s first thought was So he did send her a gift, then. I hadn’t thought to ask.

But there was nothing in Yor Briar’s file about a gardening job in her employment history...

“Snacks from Boss Grandpa?!” Anya said excitedly, taking hers immediately.

And Saros had talked about her like she still worked in gardening, anyway. Yor Briar certainly did not.

“It’s yummy!” Anya squealed.

“These are Westalian,” Twilight admitted, “I didn’t think they sold them here.”

“Oh, really?” Yor seemed perturbed by this information.

“They don’t,” Sylvia said, before she could second guess herself, “I imported them specially.”

Both adults turned to face Sylvia, surprise in their faces.

“Mr. Saros is a friend of mine,” she told them, watching Twilight’s microexpressions as he recognised the name, “So I thought I’d get him a festive treat from across the border, in the spirit of cultural exchange.”

The tiny crease between Twilight eyebrows asked What the fuck are you doing, Handler?

“Oh...” Yor breathed, eyes alight with recognition, “So you’re that lady...”

Before Sylvia could think of anything to say, Yor’s expression warmed into a big, bright smile. She pulled her hands to her chest in fists and looked deep into Sylvia’s eyes.

“Miss Sherwood,” she said, sounding deeply earnest, “I’m really glad that you’re a good person.”

“Ah... thank you!” Sylvia responded awkwardly, barely noticing the strangled noise Anya made.

Sylvia glanced at Twilight, but he was looking at Yor like she’d grown a second head.

Then Yor blurted, “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to keep you! I hope you and your dog have a nice walk home!”

“Thanks... you enjoy the dog park!” It was getting pretty late, though.

“We’re just letting Bond and Anya run around a bit,” Twilight explained, “They’ve had a very exciting day and one of them had lots of sweets, so I’m hoping they’ll settle down after...”

“Ah,” Sylvia knew that trick, “good luck then.”

Finally, she was able to depart. God, she couldn’t believe she’d let that happen! What are you doing, Sylvia?

She kept asking that question all the way home. What was she doing? What the hell was she doing?

Yet, when the door closed behind her... she found herself looking down at a mostly-clear floor. Not a clean one, necessarily, but cleared. Even if all she’d managed to do was find non-floor surfaces for the floor mess, it was better than it had been.

Even now, she felt the urge to bend and start scooping up what was on the floor.

Funny, she thought, I only want to do that on Fridays.

What a ridiculous thought. Trying to fool yourself now, Handler? Grow up.

“Ha... yes, I do know why, don’t I? I guess Christmas this year is a cleaning day, too.”

Aaron barked quietly, using his “indoor voice” and wagging tail to make his approval clear.

“I’ll give you dinner first, don’t worry. And... I’ll order something in. I can clear up while waiting, right?”

Aaron nosed her hand and offered a lick, tail still going. She scratched behind his ears the way Saros had at the park.

“Merry Christmas, Aaron.”