Chapter Text
When Loid Forger awakes, he's immediately hit with a horrible headache, pounding like a drill from inside his skull. It's nothing new but the added fog of fatigue crushing him, the rolling nausea in his stomach, the dry tickle in his throat slowly building into a cough and sheen of sweat sticking to his skin all point to the same conclusion; he's come down with a cold.
Even shifting to look at his clock sounds like too much. The thought almost makes him laugh: Westalis’s best spy, out of commission after years of flawless service, outdone by simple illness. It's been years since he had one, maybe when he was still training as a spy. He's meticulous and stubborn, with a body riddled in years of dangerous spy work, Twilight’s built up an impeccable immune system.
He’s stopped a bomb seconds before launch.
He's infiltrated terrorists.
Even with operation strix, he's managed endless side missions.
But these days, playing the role of Loid Forger seems to have softened him up. The perfect mask of Twilight cracks with each intimate moment he can't fathom. Anya and Yor are mysteries he's still trying to figure out every now and then, they throw him off his game in a way he's not used to.
He supposes that combined with the lack of sleep, the horrendous workload WISE puts on him and the most recent mission that had him taking a not-so-nice stroll in a torrent of rain, his body was always going to let its defenses down. But that doesn't mean he can afford to give in. There's still work to be done. And for that to happen, he needs to get up.
No matter how much he wants to bury back in his comforter.
With a groan and the effort to move a mountain, he heaves his sore body out of bed. Sitting up makes him dizzy enough that he needs a minute. Yikes, he really is out of it.
Loid rubs the bridge of his nose in a fruitless attempt to mitigate his headache. He can distantly hear someone in the kitchen and water running in the bathroom. That must be Yor and Anya, he thinks. He's grateful she's gotten started on breakfast in his place. Anya has school today, he can't afford for her to be late. Any more damage to operation Strix will leave him with a permanent weak stomach.
Finally, after minutes of sitting in silence, focusing on his wheezy breathing, does the dizziness fade enough for him to slowly get up. In the bathroom, he’s met with a pretty sorry sight. His face is pale - marred by deep bags that stand out against the white of his sweaty skin. His hair is out of place and desperately in need of brushing, but he’ll think about that later, after some coffee to wake him up and get rid of the dryness in his throat. Loid splashes some cold water on his gaunt face in hopes to wash away the sickness clinging to him.
In the kitchen, he greets them with a sore throat that sends him into a coughing fit, lungs wheezing. Anya pauses breakfast to stare, chewing on some slightly burnt eggs. Yor stops whatever she’s doing to rush over to him. She places a hand on his forehead he's far too out of it to dodge, “Loid, are you alright?” her frown twists her soft expression, creases between her eyes. He tries to smile, “I’m alright Yor,” but her frown only grows, “You’re burning up.”
He supposes he is, that would explain the horrible warmth attached to him like a serpent. Standing there is only making him more dizzy, and actually seeing food only strengthens the pit of nausea in his stomach. The idea of work is sounding further and further away.
“You should take the day off,” his fake wife urges with all the care of a real wife. Huh, that was a strange thought, even for Loid Forger.
“Anya agrees! Papa should rest, and to make sure he gets better, doctor Mama and Anya should stay home to watch over him!” the little girl proclaims. Yor giggles, and while Loid appreciates the sentiment, he cannot risk any more damage to Strix, “No no, I’ll be fine. And you definitely can’t miss school.” It’ll only make me more sick if I have to deal with one more Tonitrus bolt.
“That’s true Anya. While I’m sure Loid appreciates it, you need to go to school,” Yor adds gently, “Besides, you have a sleepover weekend with Becky tonight!"
Anya stares, in the way she does when she seemingly sees through him. She complies with their demands surprisingly without complaint, “Okie dokie!"
With tiny, quick steps, she rushes to her room to get ready. Loid stares in the wake of her exit, startling out of his daze when Yor asks if he’s okay again.
Get a grip, Twilight! He scowls at himself briefly, “I’m alright, just…” dizzy, uncomfortably warm, nauseous, and really “Tired.”
Worry lines her brow again. This time, she insists more firmly that he should stay home, “You’re always working so hard Loid, and you’re looking a little dizzy,” as she points it out, she reaches out with strong arms to steady his wobbling frame. No wonder the room had started to spin.
For once, even though he’s on a mission for world peace and can’t really afford breaks for himself, he’s inclined to listen to Yor’s words. Loid Forger wants nothing more to be horizontal in bed again, and Twilight might not be as effective like this.
“You should stay home. I can stay with you!” Yor’s face burns a bit red, nerves leaking into her sputtering, “I-I mean, only if you’re okay with that!”
Loid shakes his head with a sheepish smile, “Thank you Yor, but I’ll be okay alone at home. You go ahead and get ready, I’ll call the hospital and let them know.” She nods hesitantly. He catches her lingering by the bathroom door in the corner of his eyes before closing the door.
The phone somehow manages to make him nervous by just sitting there. He’s expecting Handler to simply tell him to suck it up, but her response is much milder than expected, “Very well. Take as much time off as needed.”
Twilight can’t help the exclamation slipping from his mouth.
Handler chuckles, “I’d much rather have an out-of-commission spy than a dead spy. You’re of no use if you can’t function.”
“Right…”
“Besides, it’s much more normal for a husband to stay home when ill. Well, for a workaholic like you, it might not be that suspicious if you came in half dead. Anyways, you’ll be working twice as hard once you’ve recovered,” her tone is abnormally jovial, he’s almost convinced she might be joking, but he knows the Fullmetal Lady better.
“Understood. Thank you, Handler.”
With the permission to rest granted, his body suddenly feels tenfold heavier. He drags his feet every step of the way to his room. Anya gives his legs a big hug on the way out with Yor by her side. Loid finds himself smiling and patting her head, an action much more natural these days, “Work hard for me, alright?”
“‘Kay.”
Yor frets and frets over him, “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything—no working either! Bond will tell me if you’re pushing yourself too much.” “Borf!” “There’s leftovers from last night—well, of course you’d know that since you made them. I’m sor—” he cuts her off gently, mostly because the hammering in his head can’t bear to stay upright any longer, “I promise I’ll call if I need anything.”
She nods, placated. The two girls wish him a swift recovery, the door closing with a gentle click. With that, he’s at home alone, something he’s not so used to. Before he can think too deeply on the growing hollow feeling in his chest, Loid drags himself to bed and collapses like a sack of bricks. The moment he closes his eyes, he’s gifted with almost immediate rest.
-
Unfortunately for Twilight, he’s never been one for sleep, so his much needed rest only lasts a few hours. He’s far too tired to do much, and yet his brain is too overactive to properly shut off. As a spy, he’s not really one for idleness. Despite the fatigue pulling at every limb, his fingers twitch with the need for something. The only thing he feels up for is some paperwork. At least he could prevent himself from falling too far behind. With great difficulty, he drags himself out of bed to his desk.
Upon sitting, all he can think about is pillowing his head on crossed arms and attempting to snooze again - with how violent the agony under his skull is, combined with the room spinning and heat clinging to his skin - but the papers aren’t going to magically vanish. So he picks his pen and works through at a snail’s pace. Maybe it’s the ridiculous amount of focus he needs to complete the simplest tasks, or the fact that his sight is blurring and his head hurts that makes him miss his door creaking open, followed by the pitter patter of paws. A whine at his side draws his fading attention from work. Bond manages to give him a disproving glare as he nudges Twilight’s leg, “I know I know, but I couldn’t sleep.”
“Borf!”
“Don’t tell Yor.”
“Borf borf!”
“I’ll stop soon.”
“Borf borf! Borf!”
Bond tries to reach for his paperwork with his snout. Twilight reacts fast enough to snatch them before any drool stains them, but the action leaves him even more dizzy. Maybe he ought to get more rest, lest Bond rat him out to Yor. He has no doubt that the intelligent canine would sell him out for extra treats and belly rubs. But before that, a painkiller would do his headache some good, “Alright, you win.”
“Borf!” The bark Bond gives him is noticeably happier than before. He trails after Twilight’s slow gait to the kitchen. A gait that slows more and more as the world spins again and darkens at the edges of his vision. As his head fills with cotton, Twilight stops in the living room on shaking legs, “Wha-” An invisible pressure presses on him and his legs fold like jelly, his headache spiking, consciousness fading dangerously fast. Before he knows it, he’s sprawled on the floor, limbs and head underwater, Bond’s barking fuzzy in his ears. A faint aching pulses through his body.
His eyes close against his will, and with it fades any noise.
Yor Forger trusts her hus—fake husband with almost anything. Any housework, cooking, taking care of Anya, anything small and big really. But the one thing she knows he’s not so good at is taking care of himself. He has no problem when it comes to her or Anya, and she truly admires him for it. He’s kind to a fault, close to perfection as one gets, and Yor always worries it’s because she can’t pick up after herself. After all, if she were a better wife, surely Loid wouldn't feel the need to be so perfect all the time.
She has noticed him relying on her in tinier ways: trusting her with his share of housework when he is truly exhausted, taking the time to teach her how to cook more so she can handle the nights he isn’t home, or simply to take over after a late shift with a violent patient. She appreciates those moments greatly—gathers them close to her heart. It makes her feel just a smidge more competent, lightening the guilty weight on her chest a little.
But she knows he still tries to spare her most of the time, no matter how much he insists. So she worries on her lip on her way home for lunch. She’s just going to check on him, make sure he’s eating and resting, then she’ll head back to work. If he’s not faring so well, she’s sure the city hall will understand if she stays home.
Up the stairs and down the corridor. Yor knocks, expecting a slower response, but a response nonetheless.
No one answers.
“Loid? Hello?” she knocks again, louder, a few more times. The only thing that answers is Bond’s muffled, panicked barking. Her heart rate picks up, tension in her hands, “Loid!?" When he still doesn't respond, she fumbles with the keys in a rush and swings it open, ignoring the way it smacks into the adjacent wall.
What greets her leaves her frozen for just a moment, “Loid!?"
Her assassin instincts kick in almost immediately after, her skin suddenly sensitive to the air around her. She can't sense anyone beyond herself, Bond and Loid. She skids on her knees to his side, her guard lowering and her heart racing with fear instead. Yor gently shakes her husband's shoulder, “Loid?! Loid!" Bond whines at her side, tail swishing fast. She lifts a hand to pet his ears as he nudges at Loid.
A small groan grabs her attention immediately. Loid's eyes flutter open slowly, pupils dilated, “... Yor?"
She sighs in relief at the sound of his voice, even if it is scratchy and faint, so unlike the Loid she's used to, “What happened? I came home for lunch and found you collapsed. Did something happen? Are you hurt anywhere?" He stares wordlessly, only offering short, staccato breaths. She wonders if he even heard her. Carefully, she gathers him in her arms and winces at the heat radiating from his skin, the stickiness of his sweat soaked shirt.
“What're… you doin’ here?”
"I wanted to check up on you, I was worried you were working even though you were supposed to be resting,” she gives him an amused smile. Bond’s barks tell her her hunch was right, and even Loid can't deny it, "I'm glad I did. You must've collapsed on your way to the kitchen."
"... Wanted… painkillers for… headache,” he leans into her arms and his head rolls onto her shoulder. Under her focused veneer, pink burns her cheeks. She quickly shakes it away, this isn't the time, Yor!
With strong and steady hands, she hooks her arms under his knees and armpits. Loid is heavy as she expects from what she's seen. Not too heavy though. His muscular frame eases the constant fear that her monstrous strength could hurt him.
She's about to open the door to his room when she freezes.
Loid's room is his room. Yor has never been in; just as Loid is rarely in hers unless they're setting up the lovely-dovely set. Within their arrangement, their rooms are their private sanctuaries. The boundaries they both trust to never cross.
Sweat beads on her face.
She's sure he'd rather his own bed, and even if she did enter, Loid would be very understanding and forgive her, surely. But… that's what a part of her worries. He'll forgive when she doesn't deserve it.
She's only his fake wife, and while to her this fake family is a treasure she's learning to cherish more everyday, to Loid… she's not sure it's the same. He loves Anya, of course, she means the world to him. And he cares deeply about her. But… Yor is sure she doesn't mean nearly as much to Loid as he does to her.
She can't overstep this boundary. Not without his permission. Her mouth sours at the thought, even for noble reasons. Her room is empty anyways, her sheets are fresh, and she could look over him without problem.
“I'm so sorry, Loid. I know you'd probably prefer your room over mine, but…” she trails off—swallows the rest of her thoughts. Wordlessly, she places him under the covers of her own bed, a hand gently feeling the fever of his skin. It's warm, like Yuri's had been on his sick days. It's almost a nostalgic warmth she hasn't felt in years. Yuri was grown up and didn't need her care. Within this family, rarely anyone got sick.
She knows Loid would worry over her staying home to care for him. Selfless as always, he'd surely insist he'd be fine and she not waste her holidays, but Yor has an important call to make.
-
Yor startles a little when she enters her room and feels a pair of eyes on her. They're a little unfocused, but the pair of azure brightens when they register who they're staring at, “Good afternoon Loid. Are you feeling any better?"
With a few coughs, he answers through a sore throat, “Tired… Head hurts.”
"Ah, here. The painkillers you wanted," she hands him a pill and cup. He thanks her, downing both. Yor fluffs her pillows as he lays back on them, burying under her comforter.
He looks uncannily small for someone quite tall. Absently, she reaches out to cup his flushed face, a prick of guilt dripping into her stomach, twisting uncomfortably as Loid coughs again, “I'm so sorry Loid…” she murmurs in hopes not to aggravate his headache. If only she'd been a little more firm and stayed home, she could've helped him. She could've caught him—he probably hit his head as he fell.
She brushes around his scalp for any sign of swelling, sighing in relief when she finds nothing, “I should've done more…” her throat tightens, her words fade and her eyes sting a little. She really is still a failure of a wife, even if she is his fake wife.
Loid's eyes slip open, “You’re doing plenty already, Yor… I was the stubborn one who tried to do more work… thank you, for taking care of me,” he says it all with such a soft smile. Yor is sure if her curtains were open, the light should shine on his face and make him look like an angel. She can't help the heat in her face, nor the fluffy relief in her chest.
Then, his brow furrows, “I thought you had work?”
With a giggle Yor straightens the cold compress slipping from his forehead, “I told them I'd be staying home to take care of my husband. It's both good for our cover, and you passed out so I have to be here in case that happens again!"
Loid doesn't seem to have enough energy to fight her on it, so he simply leans into her touch, “Sorry…” the word is small and timid and full of misplaced guilt.
"You don't have to apologise, Loid. I'm happy taking care of you," her bright smile softens as she remembers their conversation that night after he'd collapsed, “Like I said, I know you always try to spare me from any burdens, and I know it's because I'm not very reliable as a wife…”
A sweaty, warm palm grasps her wrist very loosely, "You're very reliable Yor. I do rely on you for a lot of things,” he gives her a small, very tired, but precious smile, "And if you wouldn't mind, could you handle my share of the chores until I'm better?”
Her cheeks flood with warmth and her heart soars at his request, “O-Of course!" Her eagerness makes him chuckle. It's a beautiful sound, no matter how rough from his parched throat.
“Is there anything you need right now?" She squares her shoulders, ready for anything, whether it be some simple shopping to fighting and bringing home a boar like she did for Yuri.
A coughing fit interrupts him. It's a bit too long for her liking, and the way it leaves him so drained worries just a little, “That’s quite a nasty cold you have. Your fever was pretty high when I checked it. Oh! I should check again to be safe,” with little protests from the groggy psychiatrist, she slips the thermometer under his tongue, holding steady until the red liquid inside stops rising. To her ever increasing concern, it's gone up a little.
“How much…?” his bleary eyes squint at her expression.
She puts it down and reaches for the cold compress, now warm, “38.6. It was 38.4 before.”
Rather than answer, Loid simply sighs at the feeling of renewed, cold cloth on his forehead. She uses a moistened towel to wipe away gathering sweat around his face and neck, something he seems to greatly appreciate, “Right… ‘suppose I've been working a lot recently…”
Yor hums in agreement, "The hospital works you far too hard. It must've been because you came home soaked a few nights ago, after midnight too," much to her chagrin, there seemed to be an unending plethora of emergency patients for Loid to handle. “They should give at least a month's long vacation.”
Loid’s hoarse chuckles turn into a small coughing fit. Yor hands him his unfinished glass of water, “Would you like some tea for your throat?"
He waves her off after a few sips, “I'll be fine… I jus’ need some rest… and maybe fever medication if my temperature keeps rising.”
She notes his every word with precision in her mind, nodding to herself, "Any preferences for dinner?”
Loid hums, eyes rolling towards the ceiling as he searches for an answer, "I'm feeling quite nauseas… so I'm not sure how much I'll be able to eat…”
Yor feels her anxiety peak again. Loid is in a delicate state and her range as a cook is still very limited. She worries there won't be a thing she can make for him, and her failures as a wife will keep piling until eventually someone notices - or maybe Loid will finally notice himself - and soon, she'll find herself face to face with the SSS.
Before her thoughts can spiral any further, Loid's request has her stare briefly, mind catching up with her ears as warmth pools in her heart, "Maybe your stew? I'd appreciate somethin’ warm and filling… and simple too. I can't guarantee I'll be able to finish it though.”
Yor is still far from the perfect wife.
“It has a very comforting taste, I'm sure it'll make me feel much better."
But even she can improve enough for her favourite dish to cook to be comforting for her fake husband, and the thought makes me feel just a little lighter. A warm smile slips onto her face.
"Of course. I'll go buy the ingredients right now!”
-
She waits until he's asleep again to go. Anya won't be home until Sunday, spending most of the weekend with Becky. She's been excited all week for their promised hang out, and Yor hopes they're having all the fun in the world.
Yor leaves him a note in case she's not back before he wakes again. The sky is bleeding orange and peaches into the horizon, a sight she appreciates while walking through the streets. At the grocery store, she happily picks out the ingredients for her mother's southern stew with a hum, a little tingle in her fingers at the excitement of making it again. She's never truly forgotten the joy of her family first eating it, cheeks rosy, a big smile on Anya's face and Loid praising her efforts. Every time she's in the kitchen cutting up ingredients, that same warmth invades her mind.
Yor wonders if maybe she should get something for Anya. She's been working hard at school lately, so maybe a reward would make her happy? Yor decides to pick up some crunchy cakes. She stops by the pharmacy for some fever medicine, taking the one recommended by the lady at the counter. With all that, she's ready to head home.
She hopes Loid's fever has gone down by now. If it's risen, she's not sure what else she can do. At least Anya isn't gone for the time being, so she can pour all her attention on caring for Loid.
When she gets home, Bond is simply lying by the TV, as he does when Anya isn't around to play with him. He perks up a little at her entrance. With a smile, she smoothly pets his fur, earning
a nuzzle that makes her giggle.
Yor considers checking up on Loid first, to see if his fever remains stable or not. Then she would know whether or not he'll need any medication. He's asleep in her room, deathly still, so much so her heart squeezed with anxiety and her hands swirly reach for his pulse. It's steady, but his skin is warm and sweaty.
It's a brief thought that passes her head, but when it does, she freezes.
Simply, that his neck is open for a quick and painless death, arteries and veins exposed, bulging under his feverish skin.
Her hand pulls back in instinct, hovering over a horrified, soundless gasp. Sweat beads nervously on her face, dripping down and leaving behind a chilly dew.
She doesn't know where the thought comes from. She doesn't like it. Loid is her family, even if they're a fake family, she cares about him deeply. She would never—
Yor shakes her head. It was probably just—... It was probably the realisation she's never seen him this truly vulnerable. Even in her arms, his muscular frame eases the worry she could hurt him. Unlike Anya, Loid is an adult who reacts well to any kind of (embarrassed) physical assault (she still needed to work on that, never again!). His ribs won't break at the slightest pressure like Yuri in his younger days, and his frame isn't as delicate as Anya's.
In her mind, he's always been perfect in every way.
But now, he's vulnerable - cracks in that façade - and it unnerves Yor. Just a little.
She resolves to simply help him get better and purge herself of any other thought. After all, if she helped him recover, then he wouldn't be vulnerable anymore. And while she had asked for him to rely on her more, with her monstrous strength, the weight of his health entirely in her hands is a weight she's scared she'll crush.
-
She slips the thermometer under his tongue, holding it steady. Much to her worry, his temperature has risen again. She feels his forehead, warmth turning to heat. Yor brings in a new basin of ice cold water this time, wringing it out before placing it gently on Loid's head. Unlike last time, he barely reacts, face slightly scrunched. Absently, she wonders what he's dreaming about, if he is dreaming at all.
Right, she needs to make the stew now! She cuts up the vegetables, a little misshapen. The meat is gently tenderising with all the spices. Carefully pour the vegetables in, then adjust the heat, wait until the meat is nice and soft. Add a little sour cream. She takes a sip after the designated cooking time, and hums to herself, a pleasant warmth filling her body. It tastes just as she remembers.
She plates a bowl for Loid first, frying a sunny side up egg, and she even manages not to break the yolk! She'll make the perfect stew for Loid to feast on for dinner.
Bond trots to the kitchen at the scent, but she gently shoos him away, “Sorry Bond, but this isn't for you. I'll feed you soon, okay?" He startles, much to her confusion, then sighs in relief and goes back to napping. Yor tilts her head, but decides to ignore it for now. He's probably just hungry.
To her surprise, Loid is awake when she brings him a tray of stew and his cup with medicine by its side, “Loid! It's good to see you awake, you're just in time for dinner.”
He doesn't respond. Before she can't think of anything else, piercing, icy orbs stare directly at her. They don't soften or light the way Loid's eyes usually. They're cold, calculating, empty.
“... Loid?" Yor places her tray on the bedside table. His eyes track her the entire time, wide and - dare she say it - scared. He still doesn't respond. He's deathly still. His face is neutral. No furrow on his brow, mouth a flat line, eyes simply staring.
Then, in a tone so empty she wonders if her fake husband was the one to really utter those words, he says, “The grocery store was out of onions."
But… they have plenty of them? "Uhm, we already have onions…"
She reaches for his forehead, and that's when he finally responds. His hand snaps from under the covers, grasping her wrist in a shaky but firm grip. She startles at the unexpected response, her muscles tending in response. Yor is strong, so Loid's grip doesn't really hurt, but she knows it would hurt a civilian. She looks into his eyes again. This time, his pupils are shrunken and shaking, face twisted into a faint growl, breaths audible and forcibly slow through gritted teeth.
He's scared.
Yor doesn't know why. A pit settles in her stomach when a realisation hits her.
“Loid? Do you… can you hear me?”
He stares.
"Do you… recognise me?"
He stares.
“Loid? Please say something…”
His mouth opens. He deliberates, at least she thinks. She hopes. He says nothing.
He hasn't let go of her hand. She tries to gently pull it away, "Loid, it's me, Yor.”
He won't let go. His grip shakes but latches on firmly. He stares with wide, pinprick eyes, beads of sweat dripping down the stressed creases of his flushed face.
Yor tugs again, harsher this time. Loid won't let go; his breaths shudders, his chest stutters under the sheets, his Adam's apple bobs with a nervous swallow.
She stops trying to pull away, reading into his mounding fear. Instead, she tries to relax her hunched shoulders, offering him a soothing smile, “It's okay, Loid, you're okay. It's just me.”
He doesn't react, but his eyes start to slip closed, no matter how much he fights it. Soon enough, she's left in a deafening silence, hand freed from Loid's hold. Yor collapses in her chair, holding her bruised wrist. She swallows the lump in her throat. Loid's asleep, she's sure, but his face is scrunched again. He's limp, arms hanging like a corpse’s. She very slowly reaches for it, then gently places it under the covers again.
The stew sits lonely and abandoned, barely warm now.
She doubts he'll wake up anytime soon, so she takes it to the kitchen and reheats it, deciding to finish herself. Bond nudges her, much to her surprise. He nuzzles her leg with soft whines, “What's wrong, Bond? Oh! You must be hungry." She quickly finishes her stew and drops the dishes in the sink for later.
Bond follows after her, still whining as she prepared his food, “It's alright, Bond, I'm almost done." Instead of digging straight into his plated food, he reaches for Yor to lay his head on her lap. Yor startles, “Are you not... hungry?" He shakes his head, but remains on her lap. It's when he gives a glance at the corridor she thinks she understands, “Oh, you're worried about Loid too?"
“Borf."
“I see," with very kind strokes, she pets his fluffy coat, relishing the feeling of soft fur through her fingers, “I'm a little worried too, to be honest. He was fine earlier today, but just now…”
Pupils, shrunken and shaking, face twisted into a faint growl.
“I… I don't think he recognised me. Or if he did… he was scared. His fever had gone up too, but I didn't get to give him medicine or dinner,” the repetitive action of smoothing Bond’s fur soothes her anxieties a little. She lets her breathing match his steady puffs of air, “But I'm sure it'll be okay. Hopefully when he wakes up again, he'll be better. Then I'll make sure he takes his medicine."
“Borf!"
Yor giggles, scratching behind Bond’s ears, “Thank you, Bond.”
He leans into her hand, making her smile widen just a little.
He's alone, as he has been for as long as he remembers. Alone in an empty, sad little room. A room with no warmth. A room with nothing personal. A room for someone nameless, for a distant figure, for a shadow on the wall, for the Twilight sky - not day nor night, the transition between, a forever changing state, forever changing masks.
He's a faceless agent awaiting a new identity.
A past thrown away. A name long forgotten.
Hands stained with crimson that never washes.
He is Twilight, Westalis's best spy. And he sits in his room, alone, cold, expressionless.
He sits, aware of everything.
-
He wakes, aware of nothing.
Twilight blinks his eyes open to a pounding headache and sore throat. His vision takes a moment to clear. Is he drugged? He can still flex his fingers and toes, but the movement is stiff and distant, as if underwater. He can't remember anything prior to waking up. Only the cold apartment he temporarily stayed at until a new cipher inevitably alerted him to his next mission.
But Twilight isn't in that apartment right now. He can finally see the ceiling that doesn't match his, the bed that's too large and donned with unfamiliar bedding. The walls that are a different colour, the room that's a different size, the bookshelves of foreign books and the picture frames he never had.
This isn't his room.
His heart starts pounding in his ears.
This is fine, it's fine. He's likely been captured and drugged, judging by his body's weakened reactions and lack of memory. He just needs to calmly analyse.
The sound of steps outside this room means there's someone else. So he can't recklessly break out. He doesn't know if he'll be able to fight them in this state.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Steadily, calm. He can't give away anything. Whatever is going on, he can't break. A broken spy is useless. A useless spy is as good as dead.
His mind races nonetheless.
Why here? Is this an interrogation? A trick to loosen my tongue, perhaps. Pretend to give me comfort, make me feel at ease. Where is this? How could I have let myself get into this situation? What's going on? What was my mission? Was this a mission or was I targeted outside of one? How can I contact Handler? Why can't I remember anything?
The door opens. Twilight silences all thoughts. He studies the intruder—or rather his captor: dark hair framing a soft expression; ruby red eyes widening; a slight gasp escaping her mouth, “Loid! It's good to see you awake, you're just in time for dinner.”
Loid? Another fake persona. So another mission then?
She walks towards him, tray in hand, a soft, soothing and aromatic scent wafting from the bowl. It only makes him nauseas, discomfort rolling around his stomach, leaving his mouth wet with a wad of saliva. His head pounds and his thoughts blur.
Who is she to Loid? Who is Loid? Another seduction mission? Is she just a pawn? Blackmail?
He stares and he stares, her words going in and out of his ears. He tries to focus on her words, but the hammering in his skull deafens everything into incoherent jumbles.
If she's part of the mission, what is she? Another agent? A face he hasn't worked with?
“The grocery store was out of onions,” he struggles to get the cipher out of his mouth, jaw heavy, moving through molasses.
She blinks. Then she stares, head tilted with a frown, "Uhm… we already have onions though."
She's not another agent. A civilian? So she has little to do with whatever mission he's on. Just a harmless civilian. Then why is he drugged? There's pills next to the stew. Is he… ill? No, as a spy, he's meticulous about his health, about leaving himself vulnerable around others. He hasn't been ill since his trainee days. He's one of Westalis's best spies for a reason. He's not careless, he wouldn't let this happen. Besides, he'd remember even if he was ill, right? Twilight has impeccable memory trained over the years, carved to perfection.
Why can't he remember anything? He must be drugged. This is a façade, a charade she's put on to lower his guard. Did she drug him? Someone else? A separate mission interfering with this one? He’s rarely assigned two missions at a time. Is this an act? Is his identity compromised?
Too many unknowns. Not enough information.
Her lips stop moving, her face creases with concern. A hand reaches for him.
Sharp as a taut crossbow, his hand launches and grabs the offending limb. She startles, and he panics briefly, heart thundering in his ears. The exertion it takes for him to move so swiftly leaves him exhausted. His breathing is off balance, tell-tale signs of fear creeping into his stuttered gasps and locked muscles. He grips her hand like his life depends on it.
It does. He's helpless. He's exposed, he's vulnerable.
He has no idea who she is. No idea where he is. No idea who Loid is. No idea what he's even doing.
He's lacking information. He's helpless—he's vulnerable, full of weakness.
He swore he'd never let this happen again, that ignorance is a sin, ignorance is weakness.
And here he is, drowning in it, riddled with that same weakness, exposed, fragile, straight on his way to hell, you let your guard down Twilight, this is unacceptable.
(He's back on that battlefield, surrounded by corpses of his own doing, all because he blindly followed whatever voice strikes his hatred. He's just another pawn, and soon he'll be another corpse.
Twilight is the faceless agent who knows everything, whose eyes and ears are open to everything. Right here, right now, he's no different from that lowly soldier, strings tugged by everyone but own hands.)
She tugs her hand away. He keeps a hold on it. He can't let go.
Why hasn't she asked for anything yet? What is she after? Why put up the charade? Does she really not know who I am? What's her plan? What's her aim? What does she want from me?
He can't read her at all. There's nothing under her face of concern. But her muscles are tense, she's poised to retaliate—she knows how to fight.
She could kill him.
She tugs a little harder. He tightens his grip. He can't let go. He can't.
She stops struggling, and instead starts talking. He can barely register it amongst the racing of his heart, the pain in his head, the nausea rolling in his gut like hot stones, the dizziness that blurs his vision. His strength is escaping him second by second, fingers unlatching one by one from her wrist.
Don't fall back asleep Twilight! She could kill you!
It's useless. His eyes close against his will no matter how much he fights it, arm falling limp like a rock. His only thoughts as black shrouds him is why she seems so sad.
Yor bids Bond goodnight, switching off the living room lights. The house is strangely lonely in this quiet mood. The usual routine that keeps home so lively is missing. Anya and Loid haven't bid her goodnight. They didn't enjoy a warm meal together. The TV wasn't turned on a single time, playing Spy wars.
Her room is almost daunting to enter. A part of her hopes Loid is awake so he can take his medicine already.
Another part of her selfishly hopes he's still asleep. She's not sure she can deal with being stared at like a stranger again—a threat, by the very man who acknowledged her with such a gleaming smile. Those cold, empty irises won't leave her mind, staring over her shoulder—peering through her skin into her insides. She wonders what they see, what made them so afraid.
… She should check his temperature again. Perhaps try to wake him gently and get some medicine down his throat. If his fever keeps rising, she might call a doctor. She’s getting worried. Yuri recovered quickly when he got sick. Yor herself never dealt with illness—her body seemed to be immune to almost anything.
Entering the door, light on her feet, the tightness in her chests loosens a smidge at the sight of closed eyes. She chews on her lip at the feeling.
Loid's face is still scrunched—expression pinched uncomfortably, almost like he's in pain.
Careful fingers - touch as light as a feather - brush back sweaty bangs clinging to his hot skin. Feverishly hot, radiating heat that warms her fingers too quickly. She struggles to loosen his jaw enough to slip the thermometer. It's gone up again, close to 40. Her heart picks up a little, staring helplessly at her shivering fake-husband, a lump in her throat, a growing storm in her mind.
Will I have to take him to the hospital soon? What kind of wife can't take care of her own husband!? Maybe they'll call the SSS on me for not being able to give him his medicine. I'll be arrested, I'd have to kill to escape and continue as Thorn Princess, but then I'll have to disappear if that happens, and no one would be there to greet Anya after her sleepover—
Yor shakes her head. It'll be okay. She'll help Loid. She won't give up. When he next wakes, she'll be careful and kind and gentle. She won't scare him this time. She's taken care of Yuri plenty of times before, she can take care of Loid.
She vows - as she wrings icy water from the rag to gently wipe the sweat clinging to him - to stay by him the entire night, watchful ruby eyes on the lookout for anything to alleviate. He takes care of her all the time; he's kind and stubborn to a fault in his reassurances, so she's going to make good on her promise (and wish) to pay him back.
“That starts with changing the lukewarm compress on his forehead!” she whispers to herself, hands pumped with her determination.