Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Twilight is used to unfamiliarity. 

He must be able to adapt to any situation; to become anyone, to create someone from nothing. The name and face of a person that never existed. He can switch between personas faster than any magician with a trick. One blink, two, and he’ll vanish into thin air. 

Waking up in the hospital is nothing new. Twilight feels the sheets before he opens his eyes, the thin hospital gown, and the pressure of an IV in his arm. He keeps his breathing steady and deep, feigning sleep while he takes in the rest of his surroundings. A heart monitor beeps quietly. 

It seems routine, but Twilight fights to keep his composure. Something is off. 

The hospital room smells like flowers. He knows a few by name, but there’s enough variety and number that he can’t name what flowers fill vases by his bedside. Handler would never do something so obvious. 

The other thing that’s wrong—his instincts are screaming—is that there’s someone else in the room with him. Not a doctor or nurse, not one of WISE, but someone he doesn’t recognize . Asleep, by the sound of their breathing and the lack of movement, and right next to him. 

Twilight opens his eyes, and without moving a muscle, looks over. 

That can’t be comfortable , is the first thing he thinks when he sees her. She definitely isn’t anyone he knows. Rumpled, long dark hair sticks out in a few directions. Her eyes are shut, her mouth parted slightly. She’s pretty, but her face is tired even at rest. And she’s completely asleep, one hand cradled close to her, but—

The other hand is outstretched, closing the distance between chair and bed. Twilight follows the line of it until he reaches the end of her fingers resting over his, just barely interlaced, like she’d fallen asleep holding his hand. 

That, more than anything in the room, scares him.

With a gentleness Twilight isn’t sure of, he untangles her fingers from his and shakes out his stiff hand. 

Twilight sits up, inspecting the room for anything that will tell him what happened. Flowers spill from vases crowded on the table to his left, with little cards and notes sticking out. He reaches over, plucking one. 

Get well soon, Dr. Forger! 

So his cover is some kind of medical professional, maybe. Most of the other notes say the same name. Forger. There’s even a little stuffed animal peeking out from a bouquet of carnations, one of a lion with a pointy mane. 

He has to get out of here and make contact with someone. Handler, preferably, but any WISE agent will do. 

But the woman… 

She’s probably just another woman who’s had the misfortune of being charmed by Twilight. Another necessary sacrifice that will end in heartbreak. A daughter of a politician? A wife of the mark? Or is she, herself, a lone agent on the other side, biding her time to stab him in the back? 

His gaze drifts back to her again. She’s slumped in the chair, slightly towards the bed. 

He needs to get to a phone. He needs to—

The pain hits when he moves, a deep, dull throb in his head. He reaches up reflexively and finds a bandage there. Twilight takes a quick scan of himself. Besides his head, which pulses now that he’s aware of it, there’s nothing else. It must be the cause of his confusion.

He moves slower, gingerly setting his feet on the ground. Shaky, but he’s been worse. Twilight undoes everything then pads to the nearby small closet to find his clothes and belongings. More clues. 

His clothes are normal—middle-to-upper class working man—but nice, tailored. A plain shirt, and matching suit pieces in a dark olive. They look clean. He changes into just the shirt and trousers in the small washroom, folding the hospital gown neatly. Then he goes to the sink to wash his face, and takes a step back when he sees himself in the mirror. 

This is… 

Twilight reaches up and touches his face. Runs his fingers through his hair. Blond, the same color as his mother’s. His eyes, the shape of his nose—this face is the closest he ever is to real . The real Twilight, the grown-up boy who played Admiral. His heartbeat comes, faster, chasing his frantic thoughts. 

He flicks through the filing cabinets of his memories, running through every mission, every identity. There’s an empty space where the most recent file should be. Twilight shuts his eyes, trying to think, and a headache forms at the back of his head. 

He doesn’t remember. 

Fine. 

He storms back out. With his things are a few accessories; a watch, some gloves, but nothing he really needs—no supplies to change his look. No matter. He’ll pick them up on the way. A hat from a gentleman, to hide his hair; glasses plucked from a case; a big coat to change his silhouette. 

He doesn’t need his suit jacket. He folds it again, contemplating, then goes around his bed. Twilight makes quick work of rolling it into a tight bundle. Then he gently lifts the woman’s head, tucking the makeshift pillow behind her neck. 

No need for a goodbye. Soon there will be next to no records that he was here at all. A voluntary discharge will be the end of any paperwork. 

This is just another face, Twilight thinks. It’s alright. She will never see him again this way, if she ever sees him again at all. 

As he pulls his hand away, she stirs. It’s too late. Dark red eyes blink awake, confused, and then widen completely when she meets his gaze.

“...Loid?” She flails, catching herself. His jacket falls, forgotten. “You’re awake. You’re—I was so worried… Why are you up? Are you feeling okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, and tucks the name Loid Forger into his mental files. Plans A and B are out. Twenty-seven others take their place.

She hesitates, hands fluttering like she’s not sure whether to touch him or not. Twilight—Loid now—doesn’t draw away when she stands and approaches, taking his hands. 

“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard,” she says gently, smiling. Her hands are rough in places, but warm. She has no ring. “You can rely on me, you know. Do you remember what happened…?”

Which choice should he make? A clean cut, a messy escape? A truth? A lie? 

“I’m… afraid I—” His tongue feels thick. “I don’t know who you are. I’m sorry.” 

It’s the wrong choice. 

Her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes well slightly with tears. She takes a second, clearly trying to recompose herself, and Twilight averts his eyes. He feels like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t, a display of emotion that is wasted on him. 

“Oh…”

Her hands re-enter his field of vision, dropping to her lap and twisting together in a fit of nerves. She sniffles once. 

His throat tightens. Twilight opens his mouth—

“I’m so sorry!” she blurts, and shoots to her feet. “Oh, no, you must be so confused… I was being so familiar with you. I’ll- I’ll get a doctor!”

He reaches for her before his mind can catch up, but she ducks her head and disappears out the door, quick as a flash. Before she rounds the corner, he sees her arm rise, close to her face. 

Twilight’s hand is still mid-air. He stares at it and lets it drop. 

A shudder runs up his spine, even if no one looking at him would be able to tell. The way he reacts to her, like she’s important—

It must be a mission. There is nothing else that would make Twilight react so strongly, even with his memories buried behind a haze. 

Twilight sits back on the edge of his bed and leans back. “Hah…”

What a pain. 

He could slip out now, of course, but now that she and a doctor will be coming back, he can’t disappear. Why did he go to her? He should have just left. Twilight narrows his eyes at the flowers, thinking, sifting through plans. 

He’ll get a discharge, make contact with WISE, and then… then he’ll go. 

How convenient it is, Twilight thinks. It’ll be easier to abandon Loid Forger this way. Some marks cling to his personas, looking for ghosts that no longer exist—if ‘Loid’ has lost his memory, he can walk away with less trouble. 

Twilight relaxes when the doctor walks in. 

It is, of course, Handler, tailed closely by Nightfall. Oh, so she wanted to wear a doctor's uniform today. She usually thinks being a nurse is cuter. 

“Um…” The woman who'd been with him fidgets. Her eyes are just a bit red. “He- he said he doesn't remember me?”

Her voice gets smaller and smaller as she speaks until ‘me’ is barely more than a whisper. Handler smiles reassuringly at her, though the corners of her eyes are pinched. 

“Wait—should I… leave?”

Three pairs of eyes flick to Twilight. Handler doesn't make any move to say that she shouldn't stay, so. 

“You can stay. It's fine.”

“Right. Well, yes, we thought something like this was possible, but please don't worry. How are you feeling, Dr. Forger? Dizziness and pain?”

There's no code; she's speaking plainly right now. 

“Ah… my head hurts.” 

“Do you know what day it is?”

Twilight glances towards the window and blinks hard. Outside small green buds are sprouting on the branches. The last day he remembers is—

Is… 

It was fall, he thinks. Does she know how much he forgot? Should he say? 

He rattles it off. Handler frowns. 

“Your name and birthday?”

Is this a trick question? Not his real name and birthday—she would never in front of a civilian. Not even in private. And not in front of Nightfall. It is a secret only a very select few remember; the others who would know are dead. 

“...Loid. Forger.” There must have been a report, some details. A basic element of a cover identity is a birthday. “October thirteenth.”

Handler hums. She meets his gaze, and her eyes sharpen. Like the other questions were fluff; this is something she is asking him.

“And who is the current chairman of the National Unity Party?”

Do you remember? 

Something sticks in his mind. Of course he knows, but it's not just knowledge. He tries grasping it. A hollow set of eyes. 

“Donovan Desmond.”

“So—I'm sorry—Doctor…” 

Handler turns to the woman, reaching out to pat her hand kindly. “Nurse Fiona here will make sure he's alright. Unfortunately, it seems your husband—”

Twilight chokes. Husband?

“Oh, dear.”

He's married ? Twilight meets Nightfall's cold gaze and squints a little, shaking his head in an attempt at nonverbal communication. 

I have a wife? What the h—

Nightfall's mouth tightens. For a mission. You don't remember? 

He gives her an unimpressed stare. 

“—has a case of retrograde amnesia. It seems he may have forgotten the past year to year-and-a-half…”

“I see…”

Twilight makes a face at Handler's back, trying to stare his questions into her. 

A year-long mission? With marriage? What kind of idiotic—

Nightfall approaches with tools. He holds still as she brings a stethoscope to his chest, her hand brushing lightly over him. His heart is beating too fast, he knows, so he breathes slowly. 

When he’s paying attention, she quirks an eyebrow at him, although she looks annoyed. You have a child. 

Twilight sputters. 

“...He suffered quite the blow in that car accident,” Handler says gravely. “Fortunately, at least based on our previous check with him, there are likely no other complications. He's quite hardy!”

So now everyone will think Loid Forger is a bad driver, he thinks dryly.

“But if he doesn't remember—”

“He should, with time,” Handler says, voice in a rare show of gentleness. “Of course, what happens next is up to you. We do recommend, Dr. Forger, that you take some time off of work and rest at home. You shouldn’t try to force yourself to remember. Now, why don’t we get you your paperwork?”

Being discharged passes in a confusing blur. He gets scheduled for another visit, and alongside that, a time and location to meet with W.I.S.E. Handler gives him one long, poignant look before turning away, like she expects something from him; but Twilight doesn’t understand exactly what. 

He’s left alone with his wife. Twilight is still turning the idea over in his mind. A wife. A wife and child . Like a proper family. 

“Um,” Twilight says, and winces despite himself. How eloquent. 

They look at each other. 

She must be hurt. An entire year… Twilight doesn’t remember. He should be more alarmed than he is, but it rather feels more like skipping a blank page in a book, picking right up where he left off while the story stumbles. He has nothing to be particularly upset over. A temporary, if troubling, setback in his mission. 

But to her, a civilian, to have someone who she thought loved her, a person she married, a father; it’s almost unimaginable.  

“Oh,” she says, completely embarrassed and breaking the silence. “I—I’m Yor.”

Twilight waits for the memory, for her name to bring anything to the surface, but nothing happens. He nods. 

“Yor,” he repeats, shaping his mouth around her name. “I’m very sorry about… about the circumstances. But, ah, it’s nice to meet you. Again. Please bear with me for a little while.”

The smile she gives him is sweet, if a little sad. 

“I promised when I married you,” Yor tells him. “I’ll bear with you for a lot longer than a little while, Loid. Shall we… shall we go home?”  

Chapter Text

The trip home from the hospital feels oddly mundane. It’s dark by the time they leave. Yor calls for a taxi, expensive but worth the near-privacy. The partition in the car muffles their conversation as Twilight watches streets pass, déjà vu following in their path. He’s been in Berlint, of course. Stationed here, walking its streets under different names and faces, but the exactness escapes him slightly. 

Is this the same route he takes home from the hospital every day? Which bakery does he prefer? Tiny snatches of memory flit by and disappear just as quickly. 

Yor is nervous and awkward, but there’s a determined set to her mouth as she describes their life quickly. 

One Loid Forger. Twenty-eight, a young but beloved psychiatrist at Berlint General Hospital. Married to Yor Forger, née Briar. 

He’s surprised when Yor explains their arrangement. He half-expected, by the way she’d acted in the hospital, that he’d swept into her life for the sake of his mission and charmed his way into a marriage. But it’s something of a deal for her, too. 

“Protection,” Yor says, chewing at her lip. “I’d been worried about getting into trouble, and you needed someone, too, so… I didn’t realize back then how much my life was going to change.” 

She laughs a little, fond but off-kilter. 

“I… see,” Twilight replies, to fill the silence. 

“And Anya…” She lifts a hand to her head. “Oh, dear, Anya. She’s going to be so upset—she’s your—our daughter, she’s only seven. She’s a bit of a handful, but she’s the most precious thing. And Bond, of course! We have a dog.”

It’s not like Twilight knows a single thing about raising a child. The thought is laughable, but Twilight swallows the sound when he catches the look on Yor’s face. A genuine, deep fondness. 

Husband. Father. They’re not roles Twilight is used to. For the sake of peace he’s given up the idea of a normal life, as have many of his fellows. In the line of spy work secrecy and danger are the enemy of family. 

Handler had a daughter, once. It’s usually better not to have someone to lose. 

Well, so he once thought. 

“I guess I’m lucky then,” Twilight muses aloud. The taxi rumbles as it pulls to a stop, and Yor quietly pays the driver then guides him out of the car. 

“Lucky?”

“Mm. To wake up and find I have a family.” 

He inspects the apartment building. There’s nothing particularly special about it. A slightly-aged brick exterior, trimmed windows, neat plants and a large set of steps leading up the front. It’s charming, if a bit plain. 

“I was the lucky one,” Yor comments. “Would you like to go in?”

“I’ll follow you.” 

They trek up to the fourth floor. Yor digs in her purse for a set of house keys—there’s a funny little skeleton keychain on them that Twilight idly wonders about.

Before she opens the door, Yor turns back to look at him. “I’ll take care of everything with Anya and… you know, so please don’t worry. I’m sure you’re tired. You can just rest if you like.”

“I’m alright,” he says automatically, then winces. “That sounds like a good plan.” 

Yor turns the key. 

At once there’s a thundering set of footsteps. Past Yor’s back, Twilight gets a glimpse of his new-old home; a bit of a kitchen, a peek into the living room, a branching hall, and then his focus snaps to the little girl flinging herself at Yor. 

“Hey—wait up, pipsqueak!” another voice calls, and Twilight jolts, surprised. He recognizes it. “I thought we agreed on no running!”

“Mama!” Anya cries. 

Yor catches her easily, like she both expected it and she’s done it a hundred times, folding Anya into her arms with a smile. She strokes the top of Anya’s head. 

“I’m sorry it’s a bit late,” Yor says. “Have you been good for Franky?”

“Uh-huh.” 

Around the corner, Twilight’s old friend groans as he catches up. Their gazes meet, and Franky grins at him even though his glasses are askew and there’s a stain on his shirt. 

“Look who’s still alive and kickin’,” Franky says, lifting his hand in a half-wave. 

Twilight slips off his hat, hand moving before he realizes to put it on a coat rack by the door. Huh. 

“A little car accident couldn’t take me out that easily.”

Franky gives him a pointed look, and then glances back toward the other Forgers. From her spot in Yor’s arms, clutching at her coat, Anya peeks up toward Twilight. 

His knees lock. He nearly stumbles at the force of her gaze, like she’s looking through him in some sort of way. Her eyes are wide and green, face soft with youth. Pink hair just touches her shoulders, though a small part of it has been poorly-braided. No doubt Franky’s awful touch. It’s one thing to be told about this faux life, and another to see it in front of him. To be told about Anya—a handful, someone incredibly precious—and to see her. 

He can’t read the expression on her face. Her hand tightens in the fabric of Yor’s coat. 

“Papa,” she declares, maybe in greeting, maybe naming him. 

Twilight musters a smile for her. 

“Anya,” Yor says, drawing her attention. “Remember how Papa got into that car accident? Sometimes, when people get hurt, it hurts them on the inside, too and makes them forget things. Papa’s… having a hard time remembering us right now, but he’s going to be okay. I know it sounds scary, but it’s just for a little while. So Mama’s going to help take care of everything for now while he recovers, okay?”

Anya blinks at her, processing. Then she turns, squinting at him, and Twilight’s heart pounds. Is she upset? Mad? Scared? He’s not sure if he should say something reassuring, or if maybe he should give her a hug or something. 

“Ohh,” Anya finally says after a long, long moment, “like that episode of Spy Wars! Mama, remember? You watched it with me.” 

Franky claps a hand over his mouth, barely covering a laugh. 

“I… think so.” 

“Yeah!” Anya’s eyes sparkle. “Bondman is on a top-secret mission and bam! He gets hit right over the head and it makes him forget everything, but he has to go disarm the bomb anyway, and then he forgot all about Princess Honey and she was really sad—”

Twilight is already dizzy and deeply unprepared for this situation. Handler should have given him more details. Anything. Franky’s shoulders shake, and even Yor looks surprised. 

“That’s right,” Yor manages, a little smile. “But in the end, Princess Honey helps Bondman remember. Papa will be just like Bondman, he’ll need a little time.”

“Got it! Oh, and Bondman and Princess Honey kiss—”

“Anya,” Yor chides. “We all need to rest. Aren’t you tired?”

“No-ooo,” Anya says in a tone that makes it clear she’s only trying to be contrary. 

She yawns. 

Yor glances at Twilight with a little conspiratorial smile, an amusing joke he misses half the context for. 

“Papa.”

It takes him a second to remember he’s being addressed. 

“Yes?”

Anya narrows her eyes at him. “You better remember fast, ‘cause forgetting me is super lame.” 

“Right,” Twilight says, both amused and somewhat offended despite himself. It is not his fault he’s forgotten his other life. Is this the power of seven-year olds? “I’ll do that.” 

Twilight can’t say he knows anything about being a father. Even if he recovered his memories, he’s not sure they would be of any use in the situation. Watching Anya tug at Yor’s hand fills him with equal longing and aversion. He’s not meant to be here—this doesn’t feel real, a life he made up for his own goals. 

He wants to turn around and find Handler to ask her what she was thinking. 

Missions are hard work. Becoming someone else is a refined skill, building a person from the ground up. How Loid likes to spend his spare time, Twilight doesn’t know yet. From how he ties his shoes to how he likes his eggs. As long as Twilight understands the parameters, he can carry out any plan. 

Here… 

He feels out of place, like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit, like an actor with the wrong directions on stage. He doesn't know how to be in a family. 

He hesitated too long, in the hospital. He could have walked away. 

Anya makes a muffled little noise, pulling out of Yor’s arms and disappearing down the hallway. A moment later a door shuts. 

“Oh…”

Yor rocks back and forth on her feet, looking between Twilight and the direction Anya ran off to.

“I’ll talk to her again in a bit. Loid, let’s get you settled in.”

“Didn’t forget me, did you?” Franky asks, rubbing at his eyes. 

“We’ve known each other for too long,” Twilight admits. Has he said something he shouldn’t have? “But the last year and a half is… foggy.” 

Foggy is a kinder word than blank. Franky huffs. 

“Some accident. Well, anyway, since it’s getting late I’d better head out. Yor, if you need any more help with this one, just let me know. Needs just as much watching as the kid.”

“Thank you again for helping with Anya the last few days, you’ve been very helpful.” 

They send Franky off, leaving Twilight wondering about the words Franky couldn’t say in front of Yor. They’re still in the entryway, and Yor looks at him for a moment, though her eyes are distant. 

“...Yor?” 

She snaps back. “I-I’ll show you around!” 

It’s a comfortable, cozy apartment. Simple and just the right size for a family of three. The kitchen is modern and neat, a grocery list taped to the fridge door. Vases of flowers, some Twilight thinks might have been part of the get-well bouquets, adorn a dining table with three chairs. A checkered throw blanket over a sofa. Strewn drawings, a folder of homework, a dog toy. They pass by Anya’s backpack slumped on the floor.

Yor catches him looking at a slight dent in the wall and flushes. 

“I was teaching Anya how to throw a punch.” 

“She punched the wall?”

“She got excited.”

The first room down the hall is obviously Anya’s, though it’s shut tight without a peep of sound. There’s still a little light under the crack of her door. 

“She seemed upset earlier.”

Yor smiles weakly. “It's been a hard time for us all.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, it's not your fault.” 

There's a few picture frames on the wall; Twilight slows to inspect them. 

“These are…”

Family portraits, one would call them. They sit nicely in one, but in the others the pictures seem more natural, lively. Anya dances between the frames, always looking up with a bright smile. Yor is a steady, reassuring figure. Bond joins them with a wagging tail. Twilight is in them, too—his own eyes stare back at him, crinkled at the corners. In some of them he isn't looking at the camera at all, and Twilight follows his gaze to Loid's family. 

In a handful, he isn't in the pictures at all but clearly behind the camera in more candid moments. Yor, lit by the sunset, hand covering a laugh. Anya sprinting through grass. He screws his eyes shut, reaching first for the smell of summer grass, warm light, sweat clinging to his shirt; then a child's laugh, looking up—

But he doesn't see her. It slips away. 

He feels, oddly, more like a guest than a resident, as Yor opens the door on the right for him and lingers outside. Twilight ducks his head and steps in. 

Twilight doesn't know what to expect, but the room is fairly minimal. Where the rest of the apartment is cluttered with the remnants of living, his room is plain. A few books are neatly stacked on his desk. The furnishings are light with little color. Heavy curtains frame a tall window. A leather briefcase sits on the floor. 

A feather-light touch. 

Twilight flinches, unable to suppress it, and Yor draws back. 

“Sorry—” they both say, and Yor shakes her head. 

“Just… get some rest,” she murmurs. “Oh, and the bathroom is down the hall. The, um, the yellow toothbrush is yours. I should—go talk to Anya.”

He watches her go not for the first time today. 

Right. 

Twilight crosses to his desk first. The books there are normal, of course, even when he picks them up to thumb through the pages. There's a desk calendar and pen, the top edge uneven where months have been removed. He checks the past week. Friday evening—”Gathering hosted by Blackbells, 19:00.” 

They must have missed it for him. 

There are ordinary, incredibly mundane events marked. A day for grocery shopping and running errands, picking up clothes from the dry cleaners. There’s even a note in different handwriting that says, “Make sure Anya's spare uniform is ready in time!”

On the underside of the desk there's a slight, nigh unnoticeable ridge where the drawer is. Twilight glances towards the door, but he can hear Yor moving rooms already, across the hall. 

Just barely over the soft sound of the house humming and across the hall, he hears their voices. 

“Anya…?”

Twilight tugs at the extra piece of wood, revealing a false bottom of the desk drawer. Inside is a plain black notebook. He flips it open. 

Voices drift as Twilight reads. 

Anya's first day at school… 

“What if Papa doesn't remember?”

“He will.”

Anya is doing better with her grades thanks to the Authens’ help. She seems to be connecting with Damian—progress continuing to be monitored. 

Today was a good day with Yor… she seems to like spending time together doing errands. Next time… 

“But—Mama… what if he stops wanting to be our family?”

More entries, each dated. Twilight flips further and further into the year. The entries about Strix begin to… wander. There are notes about what Anya likes, about their days; bringing her and Bond to the park, planning for her birthday, the recipe for her favorite soup. What clothes he thinks suit Yor, what helps her unwind after a day of work, a memory she's told him of her parents. It is all achingly personal. 

“We just have to wait for him, Anya,” Yor says, like she knows he's listening. “I know we aren't the most conventional family, but we still are one. The best thing we can really do right now is be there for him, and live normally. Don't you think?”

“Okay, Mama.” Gone is the willful, piercing girl from earlier that Twilight met. “...Do I still have to go to school tomorrow?”

Separated only by a few walls, Twilight reads, and listens, and thinks for a long time.

Chapter Text

…Liar.

Twilight's fists are swinging before he's even fully awake. 

A figure looms over him in the dark, nothing more than a slip of a shadow. He goes for the throat instead of the head, but his hands are caught.

“It's only me,” someone says, soothingly, as Twilight reels back into awareness. 

“What…?” he croaks. 

Oh. 

Yor's brows crease. There is just a little light, from the window; now that his eyes have adjusted he can make out her face. 

Right. He is Loid. There was an accident. A mission. 

Seeing him come to his senses, Yor lets go, and Twilight—Loid—brings his arms back to his side, resting on his blanket. 

“I just wanted to check on your head,” Yor continues. “And it seemed like you might be dreaming.”

He was, but the details of the dream are already gone, leaving a lingering unease. The dream itself isn't important. What keeps his heart pounding is the fact that he'd barely sensed Yor up until he was swinging at her: how could someone be so quiet that he hadn't noticed her until it would be too late? And she'd reacted just as quickly to his blows. Were she an enemy, and not his… wife, he'd be in danger.

He still might be.  

“I didn't mean to surprise you, I'm sorry.”

“Right.” He pauses, his brain catching up. He'd attacked a civilian. “No, I should apologize. I could've hurt you.”

Yor makes an amused noise, reaching up to cover her mouth. “Oh, no. It's alright. How do you feel? Is your head bothering you?” 

He runs a mental check. Just a dull throb. His vision is just fine, and he doesn't feel dizzy or particularly tired. 

“Fine.”

“May I?” He nods assent without being entirely sure of what he's agreeing to until she reaches for him, touch feather-light on his cheeks as she turns his head left and right then glances quickly in his eyes. It's almost intimate. “You look alright. You should get some more rest.”

He… doesn't even remember falling asleep. He remembers reading his notes. When he looks around he sees the desk appears as it did before; his clothes are neatly folded on his chair. He's wearing a plain shirt with a boat on it and… a set of pajama pants with peanuts on them? His slippers are set at the foot of the bed. 

“...I must like peanuts?”

Yor startles, then laughs. “Anya does very much.”

He must have put everything away and fallen asleep immediately. It has been a rather long day. The other option is too embarrassing to consider. 

“Go back to sleep.” Yor steps back. “I'll leave you to rest, then. Goodnight, Loid.”

“...Goodnight.”

He doesn't sleep, though, just lays there and thinks he has to find a way to talk to Handler, soon. 

Morning comes. With a bit of sunlight Twilight—or Loid—feels better. Their apartment, so quiet at night, bursts to life. There's the sound of puttering footsteps down the hall, the smell of burning, even a bark. 

Twilight stares at the door handle for a while, wondering if he can use his amnesia as an excuse to just. Not. 

He opens the door. 

Anya hops down the hall, less of a girl and more of a wriggling mass of black cloth. One arm pops out through the wrong hole. Behind her, a frankly massive dog in comparison—this must be Bond—is tugging at the back of her dress in an attempt to help. 

They both freeze. Anya flaps in his direction. 

“Papa help.”

“Uh,” Twilight says. “Yep.”

Anya lifts her arms up, and Twilight fixes her dress—it's backwards, too. Her head finally emerges as he studies the details of her uniform, embroidered with gold. 

“You go to Eden Academy?”

“Yeah,” Anya says, puffing out her chest. “They call me Starlight Anya the Hero!”

Somehow Twilight doubts that, but he doesn't know enough about how seven-year olds act, much less what they call each other. 

“I got two whole Stellas,” Anya continues, grabbing his hand and yanking him down the hall. Towards the burnt smell. A foreboding feeling comes over him.

Yor emerges from the kitchen, and Twilight cautiously sniffs. Poison? No. Just burning. 

“And two Bolts,” Yor chides lightly. “But yes, Anya, you've made some wonderful achievements. Hurry for breakfast.” 

“Are those eggs?” 

“Huh? Oh, yes.”

Anya scrambles into a chair, then points at the one next to it. 

“They're only a little burnt,” she tells him cheerfully, shoving her mouth full of egg that's dark and crisp around the edges and mumbling around her food. 

“Don't speak with your mouth full.”

Anya swallows, then adds, “Mama used to burn them so much they were like coal.”

Harsh. Yor doesn't look bothered, setting out his plate. There's toast, too, also kind of burnt, spread with a thin, even layer of butter and jam. Ketchup for his two eggs. A cup of strong, dark coffee with just a splash of milk.

It’s all just the way he likes it.

“Thank you.”

It's not bad, considering. His restless night left him hungry. 

“We'll have to leave you alone today,” Yor says apologetically, tucking into her own breakfast. “Neither Anya nor I can take any more time off…”

Twilight's brain whirs with the new information. He'd assumed as such with Anya's uniform, but Yor also going to work leaves time for Twilight's other job. 

“That's no problem,” he says. “I'll just enjoy the rest, maybe take Bond on a walk.”

“He knows the way to the park!” Anya pipes up. “Right, Bond?”

Bond barks. 

“You’re… quite smart, aren’t you?”

Bond gives what might be a nod, but Twilight knows people often interpret the world through the lens of what they want to see. Anya’s smile dips, though, and she squirms in her chair, short legs kicking out. 

Anya hums and chatters her way through breakfast, regaling them with tales from school. Twilight doesn’t have to do much. He just sits and nods in the right places until she tornadoes out the door. 

Yor disappears to change quickly, dressing in a pale green uniform that must be from City Hall. 

“Before I leave, I’ll just introduce you to our neighbors.”

The Authens, Twilight learns. A sweet, elderly couple. He thinks he knows that name—something to do with scientific research, during the war. Could they know something? No, it isn’t good for Twilight to cast suspicion on everyone he meets, but one can’t be too careful. Still, could they—

“Cookies?” Mrs. Authen offers. “Just baked this morning. Fresh.”

He’s handed a still-warm shortbread and bites into buttery goodness.

Yor claps. “Anya will love these! Thank you. If you don’t mind, what we talked about before…?”

“Hm?” Dr. Authen says, squinting at him. “Oh, yes, your memory’s bad as mine, is it? Leroy…”

“Loid,” Mrs. Authen corrects. She waddles forward and pats Loid’s hand with her own, soft and wrinkled. “If there’s any trouble, you come and get us.” 

“Trouble…” Dr. Authen repeats. His eyes sharpen, then go distant. Mrs. Authen gives him one more smile, and they pull away for a morning walk. Twilight watches them go, walking at a slow unhurried pace, and feels an unexpected pang in his chest. 

They probably aren’t trouble themselves, he thinks. Not with crumbs clinging to his fingers, the way Mrs. Authen loops her arm through her husband’s. 

Is that what Mother—with Father, even—would have looked like in their older years? Or perhaps even Twilight himself?

“They’re very sweet and they look after Anya,” Yor explains in a rush. “Dr. Authen tutors her, too. I’ve got to go soon, but, here—”

She folds a piece of paper into his hands. 

“My office number,” she says. “Just in case.” 

Yor lingers at the door to their apartment, watching him with wary eyes like he might disappear if she looks away. He still might.

“Anything. If you need anything, just… call?”

“I’ll, sure.” Twilight looks down at the phone number, all messy handwriting. “I’ll call.”

Yor smiles. She takes a step back, then another, still facing him, before finally turning to leave.

The snatch of dream-memory comes back to him again, an echoing word. Liar.

Bond practically drags him out the door. 

“Woah,” Twilight says, keeping a firm hold of the leash. Bond calms after a little bit. He’s apparently decided the park means it’s time to play. “Take it easy on me.”

He does know the route to the park, once he re-orients himself and maps it all out mentally. Bond takes him a different way, sniffing hopefully at a bratwurst stand they pass on the way in. He marches along with a wagging tail. 

“What a cute dog.”

He opens his mouth to say thank you, and then looks up to meet Handler's solid gaze behind a set of heart-shaped sunglasses.

To code it is. 

“Yours too,” he says. When did Handler get a dog? “A good day for a walk, isn't it?” 

“So it is.”

Handler crouches down and unclips her shepherd from the leash. “Go on, Aaron.”

He lets Bond go, and the two dogs bound around each other with recognition. 

What are you doing here? 

Same as you. 

“What a coincidence,” Twilight says.

It's a strange, specific coincidence. If Handler had planned to meet him, she'd have sent him a message to say so. 

“Hmm.”

“Have you seen the weather report? It seems like we've got some clouds coming in. What do you do for work?”

About the mission… what next? 

Handler sighs, propping her chin on her hand as she watches their dogs go in circles. 

“Oh, just as a secretary. It's nothing exciting.” Her eyes catch his. 

Nothing. Not now. 

He frowns without meaning to. 

“Really.”

“Twilight. You're not getting any other assignments. Stay where you are, let your memory come back.” 

“But—”

“Didn't I warn you not to be reckless back when you were a new recruit?” Handler snorts. “It's a difficult mission, Strix. I know.” 

“I can handle it.”

“That's not what I'm concerned about. Just remember… This is Loid Forger's family.” 

The word worms itself back into his mind. Liar, liar. The implication Handler gives him is clear. 

“I know.”

Handler gives him a thin smile. 

“I do care about my agents, you know.” She flicks a bit of grime off her jacket, appearing nonchalant. “I want you to be happy. After everything… you deserve that much.” 

Twilight swallows past the lump in his throat. He's never imagined a life past WISE. He would be a spy until he couldn't; and one day it would all catch up to him, and he would go quietly. 

He wouldn't say he's unhappy, but not happy, either. It doesn't matter. His work is fulfilling. A world free of the suffering born from war, from crying children, is enough. 

Unbidden, he thinks about sitting around a table with Yor and Anya and Bond, having breakfast; so normal it feels strange. So normal he could get used to it. 

“Not until this is over.” 

Handler hums, then pauses. “It could be.”

Twilight flinches. “What?”

“I could reassign you. Or give you a different partner. Nightfall would do it. You could be done with it.” 

This is a test. 

He had similar thoughts, of course, after waking up. He could leave with a clean cut, a blank slate. 

But there is—was—an empty spot at that table, an empty room, an empty space where Twilight is supposed to be. 

“No. I’ll see this through.” 

Instead of responding, Handler stands from her seat on the park bench. 

“Aaron!” she calls. Her dog’s ears perk, and he detangles himself from Bond, trotting back to her. Handler pats him on the head, clipping him back in his leash. 

Bond meanders back slower, flopping down at Twilight’s feet. He lets out an amused laugh. 

“Thanks for entertaining me,” Handler says. 

She looks like any civilian today in her plainclothes, the kind of person you could pass on the street. A plastic bag and a water bottle sticks out of her pocket. Her top is loose and comfortable for a pleasant day. 

Handler reaches up, hand resting at an empty spot on her collarbone. She used to wear a necklace there, Twilight knows, back in his early days at WISE. She still does on occasion. A locket, with a tiny photograph of her husband and daughter. 

On the joys and sorrows, the peace and danger of having a family… she would know. 

As she turns, Twilight catches sight of something caught in her hair. 

“Wait.”

He plucks it out and huffs. It’s a bit of dog kibble. 

“...See you around,” she says. Aaron barks at her, and her voice drifts back as she walks away. “Yes, Aaron, you’ve been good.”

Bond looks expectantly at Twilight. 

“Yeah, Bond. Let’s go.” 

He passes families as they walk. A young couple pushes their baby in a stroller, pointing out trees and flowers in silly voices. A kid runs past with a butterfly net, followed by her out-of-breath parent. All of them unknowingly under his protection. 

A memory flits by, quick as a butterfly. Anya, small hand in his, singing nonsense as she swings their hands in big arcs. 

By the park entrance, flyers flutter where they’re tacked to a post. Twilight stops by consideringly. He plucks one down to look at. 

Maybe a family outing will do everyone some good.